


Ashtuzual. The Ranger and the Orc.

by queefqueen



Series: The Orc and The Ranger [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Arnor, Bree - Freeform, Dunland, Eriador, F/M, Gap Filler, Gen, Half-orc, Rangers, Slavery, The Angle, The Shire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-03-11
Packaged: 2018-01-07 15:19:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 48
Words: 87,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1121416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queefqueen/pseuds/queefqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 2981 TA two Rangers free several women of different races from orc and mannish slavers in Northern Eriador. Thus begins a story covering over a decade and most of Eriador. It is a tale about how the Dunedain of the North, Dunlendings, Breelanders and others live. A gap-filler both for a period not covered in detail by Tolkien, but also about the customs of various tribes and races inhabiting that part of Middle Earth. This tale strives to show the picture lower to the ground than Tolkien, occasionally at starving peasant level, as well as the political infighting behind Aragorn's back amongst the Rangers. At the core of the story is a forbidden love of the sort which shall not be mentioned.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I wish to express my thanks to TommyGinger and Annafan without whose advice and support this work would never had been written.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rescue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AnnaFan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaFan/gifts), [Tommyginger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tommyginger/gifts).



> Orkish and Black Speech inserts are either so well known that anybody with some knowledge of the ME universe knows them or can be guessed from context. Where neither case applies I will give a translation. Zoop provided me with most of the Orkish/BS vocabulary used in the story.  
> Dwarrows influenced by Soledad and Valandhir.  
> Hobbits influenced by Dreamflower02.  
> Dunedain racism inspired by Leaward.  
> Timeline of main characters:
> 
> Before Time Began: Galadriel and Celeborn are born
> 
> Dawn of Time - Elrond and family are born
> 
> 2799 – Dain slays Azog at battle of Azanulbizar
> 
> 2864 – Aithon born  
> 2911 – Fell Winter  
> 2920 – Thannor son of Aithon born  
> 2926 – Tarkil son of Aithon born  
> 2931 – Aravir and Aragorn born, Arador, Aravir's father, dies  
> 2933 – Arathorn, Aragorn's father and Aravir's brother, dies
> 
> 2941 – Thorin's Company retakes Erebor; Bolg kills Thorin and dies at hands of Boern  
> 2951 – Inzilbeth born, Aragorn begins 30 years of travel  
> 2966 – Tarkil helps Inzilbeth escape Rohan  
> 2968 – Inzilbeth is adopted by Aravir and accepts offer of marriage from Tarkil  
> 2971 - Ashtuzual born  
> 2981 – fun begins; Ashtuzual saved from slavers by Tarkil and Aravir; 50 y/o Aragorn engaged to c.2700 y/o Arwen "cradle snatcher" Undomiel, finally assumes Chieftainship
> 
> To obtain Ashtuzual's HAE (human age equivalent) multiply her calendar age by 1,5.

Upper Hoarwell Valley, 2981 TA early May

Aravir and Tarkil winced at another female scream. The slavers they were tracking were having their fun. Being able to hear and not being able to do anything to help was soul wrenching for the two Rangers. They could only grit their teeth listening to the raped females' cries. Fifty and fifty five years old, respectively, they were old enough not to throw themselves at the slavers immediately but to bide their time. Yet they were much, much not old enough to bear the situation without having their blood on fire. While patrolling northern Eriador along the upper reaches of the Hoarwell, to the north of the Trollshaws, they had come across a group of eight to ten slavers – mostly orcs and some men. That had been two days ago. They had followed them and waited for the opportunity to attack and release the three to five slaves, all female, a mix of mannish and dwarven women. That was their guess as to their number from the cries they heard and the glimpses of the column in the lightly wooded countryside. They were wary to approach too close and never got a good view of the group as to be able to count and identify everybody. The weather was against them - the overcast days allowed the orcs to move all night and then all day about without much hindrance. They still needed to rest, though. The column made very good time and evidently was heading towards the northern Misty Mountains – between the High Pass and Gundabad - where their slave markets could be found. The Rangers felt that the weather was to change soon and waited for their opportunity. They expected that tomorrow was to be their day. An unobscured Sun in a cloudless sky should force the orcs to take a longer rest during the day. The sun should also impair their sight and improve the chance of surprise. Hopefully it would not be the manlings on guard when they attacked.

The next day brought the desired weather. They had to circle the slavers camp, however, to stay downwind. This almost brought them out of range of the post march session of tormented female's cries. The conditions were perfect. The late morning sun was a pain to look at and they had it at their back. A quite strong wind blew in their noses and made enough rustling and other sounds among the vegetation as to drown out any non-twig snapping noises they might make. They dumped their packs some one hundred yards from the copse in which the column broke for camp and slithered through the grass and bushes towards the densest growth where they expected the orcs to take respite from the sun. They spied the orc sentry sitting on an overturned log and not very observantly gazing in their general direction. Aravir nodded to Tarkil who killed the guard with a shot from his bow.

They crept forward. After they passed the body they could see the camp. Some of the sleeping figures on the ground were evidently male, some female, and several could go either way. They could not cross out the possibility of there being another slaver on guard on the other side of camp but then again, few things ever were perfect. The plan was for Tarkil to stay at the edge of the camp with his bow, while Aravir was to charge in and lay on the enemy with his fell sword Spleenripper. Tarkil's job was to keep watch against "that other guard" and prevent anybody going for Aravir's back. Should any slaver make a move for the females he also was to shoot to kill to prevent any becoming a hostage against them.

Aravir quietly rushed the camp while Tarkil shot two of the prone figures which were evidently orc. They could not rule out that a manling could be a slave too. Even if the arrows would not kill due to awkward angle they would still maim and improve the chances of the Ranger in melee. Aravir decapitated the first sleeping orc before the dying scream of one of Tarkil's victims aroused the rest. He focused on putting the remaining slavers out of action leaving it to Tarkil to shoot any which staggered up again. The sounds of the fighting flushed out the second guard. He charged the stout Ranger from the bushes on the other side of the small clearing and got an arrow for his trouble. This released the elder Ranger from overwatch duty and he sprinted to join the fray. Within moments resistance was over leaving three stunned and wounded opponents. Aravir broke the unwounded arm of one slaver and pegged the arm of another into the ground with a captured sabre. He noted Tarkil similarly incapacitating another. He then moved towards the multiracial gaggle of women. The younger Ranger cut their bonds with his dagger and moving from one to another made a count - three dwarrodams, a woman and ... an orcess? Bending over her he stopped, not sure whether to slit her rope or throat.

Seeing his hesitation and guessing the cause one of the female dwarrows cried out - "No, no, let her be!".

– "She's one of us!", she added.

Meanwhile Tarkil had finished maiming the two wounded orcs and one man. They were now defenceless. He gathered some knives and waved to get the females' attention – he pointed to the knives, the fire and the bleeding and prone bodies – "all yours ... ".

While cutting the orcess' bonds and listening to the rising screams of the tortured slavers Aravir took a closer look at her. She evidently was terrified of him - her wide open slanted, reddish-brown eyes were darting all over the place. Her fear was quite natural, Aravir thought grimly. Her quickened breath was one gasp after another. Her leather knee length tunic had seen much better days and was ripped and holed in many places. Lanky black hair, sallow or maybe olive skin - the filth made it difficult to say. Mottled - were these bruises? Hands and feet with strong nails, a strong jaw, flattish nose, delicately pointed ears, a wealth of scabbed cuts all over her body and dried blood on her thighs rounded out the picture. Scrawny. Probably half-starved, but what did he know? He had never _examined_ a female orc before. He simply killed and burned them.

 

 "No pieces of metal or bone stuck through her skin anywhere", he noted. – "Probably too poor for that", he decided. He straightened himself from the crouch and made a motion showing the orcess that she was free. She startled him by springing up and Aravir instinctively moved the knife to block her attack. But she ducked under Aravir's knife and rushed to the fire. She grabbed a branch and pressed the smouldering end into the Mannish slaver's privates. The scream which joined the howls of the other two slavers could probably be heard at Mount Gundabad.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

**Some notes:**

Gestation:  
Depends on race of mother only.  
Hobbits - 6 months (26 weeks)  
Orcs - 6-7 months (26-30 weeks)  
Uruk-hai (Isengard) - 7 and 1/2 month (32 weeks) Dwarrows - 7 months (30 weeks)  
Men - 9 months (38 weeks)  
Elves - 12 months (53 weeks)

 

Languages used:

Hobbits - Westron  
Breelanders - Big and Small Folk - Westron; Big Folk - Breelander  
Hill Men/Haladin - Haladin  
Dunlednings - Dunlander  
Dunedain - Sindarin, most Westron; Rangers also Orcish, Dunlander, Haladin  
Orcs - Orcish, most Westron  
Elves - Sindarin, some Westron

  
Ruling and trading class, regardless of race, knows at least some Westron  
Not all Dunedain, women in the Angle particular, know Westron

  
Hill Men live in Misty Mountains to the North of Rivendell. Also across northern Eriador. For personal convenience I use the term "Haladin" for them and their language.


	2. Getting to know one another

 

Aravir noticed that one of the dwarrowdams and the mannish woman appeared to be in better shape than the others. The cleaner and less beaten dwarrow crouched over an unconscious fellow dwarf which looked to be in very poor shape. Very badly beaten, with barely scabbed marks and bloody rags all over her. He knelt next to her while Tarkil was checking that those who were supposed to be dead actually were and hauled the bodies to the leeward part of the camp.

\- "She had had enough". – The dwarf volunteered. – "This morning she tried to get the slavers to kill her. Almost got her wish." – She said with a bitter and sad voice. – "This evening they'd have their last sport with her and she'd return to the Earth and Stone. Who are you?"

\- "We are Rangers. I am Shorty and my companion is Honey. We try to keep these lands free of Shadow. We had to wait for the weather to change, we are so sorry we couldn't save you earlier ... "

\- "We are grateful for saving us anyway. I'm Bergdis, daughter of Borur, at your service" – she bowed her head; - "she" – she pointed her chin at the lying dwarf – "is my cousin Gudrun daughter of Robur and" – she turned her head to check what was going on next to the fire – "the one cutting off the orc's ear is Ingrid daughter of Faram. The Mannish girl is Leri and the Orcess is Ashtuzual."

\- "Two of you look less done in ... "

\- "Virgins." She pursed her lips as if she was to say something but changed her mind. " A ... Better price. All the ... raping was of Ingrid, Gudrun and Ashtuzual." – Bergdis stated in a flat voice.

\- "This Ashtuz... Ashtaz ... Ashtur ... Ashtuzual ... can she be trusted? "

She shrugged – "to some degree yes. But what can I say? After we – the dwarrows – were taken from a settlement to the east of Emyn Uiaul, north of the big lake, our band met another group of slavers. As this bunch of scum deals in females only they traded our menfolk – four of them – for Leri and the orcess and a sword of average craftsmanship. Ashtuzual was treated just like us – raped and beaten the same. She was not nasty to us, even friendly, I'd say, as far as such conditions allowed. The manlings liked to hurt her" – she glanced over her shoulder again – "that's why she's shoving that stick into Samlet's ear. That one really had treated her rotten."

After speaking with her on her cousin's condition Aravir got up and conferred with his colleague for a moment. They decided to make camp at the same spot. They decided to risk it as Gudrun's screams of the morning had not attracted any attention.

Tarkil seemed to have had enough of screams, female or male, and barked:

\- "Kill'em off and lets start getting organised."

Some moans and shrieks later Tarkil continued – "Check their things for anything useful – weapons, food, medicine, if there is any. Clothing you could use. You know better than we do what they had. Put that in piles. Any water nearby?" After nodded confirmation from the females – "You two" – he pointed to Leri and Ingrid – "take some pots, sand them and bring them back with water. You" – he pointed at Ashtuzual and wavered for a second, sharing a quick look with Aravir who gave a sign of consent - "collect more firewood."

Sometime later Aravir took Leri, Ashtuzual and Ingrid to the stream to bath. They were equipped with the Rangers' soap and their spare shirts. The girls also took some clothes the orcs and men had looted to wash and use themselves.

Bergdis remained at the camp with Tarkil to tend to Gudrun's injuries. The older Ranger had five years of experience over Aravir in being sewed up and thus a slightly better notion about sewing up others. With visible embarrassment he explained to the dwarrowdam that he would have to examine and treat her cousin everywhere. So he asked her for permission and forgiveness for such liberties. Berdgis looked at him without comprehension and then her face crumpled and she broke into tears. He gently and slowly embraced her and she sobbed uncontrollably into his jerkin for a few minutes. From her rasped sobbing he gathered that after three weeks of being constantly shamed and dishonoured he was treating them normally and that she was grateful for that. He silently swore that anybody calling any of those girls orcfuckpallet or orctoy - insults he had heard towards survivors of orc attacks - would get a knife in the ribs. A dull knife. After she calmed down they began to wash and tend to her wounds with water the other females had brought.

A similar although less dramatic scene was taking place at the stream. Aravir laid out some captured weapons on the bank, for the dwarrowdam, woman and orcess to grab "in case of something happening". Although the advised reaction to "something happening" actually was running back to camp. He hung a blanket on a low branch and sat behind it facing away from the stream.

A teared up Leri explained to a curious Ashtuzual that "it's NOT ordinary fer lads to see the lass' bits so 'e's being gentlemanly and proper like".

While shifting through the loot from the slavers the Rangers shared short exchanges with the females and learnt their stories. The slaver band's leader was an orc called Club Head. The three dwarrowdams came from a nameless settlement – nameless as it was temporary, set up for several years only. It sheltered a few families which were excavating a rich bog iron deposit. They smelted it on the spot and sent the spigots to be worked into implements by relatives in the Ered Lindon. The slavers had raided the settlement - a run through and grab who you can affair - and taken adolescents as captives. Bergdis was not taken by orcs like the other two and thus escaped defilement, the mannlings who caught her having more consideration for profits. The three dwarrow women expected that the menfolk - at work at the time of the raid - had survived. They also hope that the older women - their mothers, sisters and aunts - also had survived. It had been a run and grab raid and those not grabbed immediately like them should had survived. And they had heard the clang of weapons while being carried away. Would their families had stayed there after the raid they did not know – but they had relatives in the Blue Mountains to stay with if their families had not survived or were not to be found.

The Rangers also learnt that while Bergdis and Ingrid were of the Broadbeams clan Gudrun – although Bergdis' cousin - was a Longbeard. The dwarrows mentioned this as an example of clan intermixing of the third generation of Erebor exiles which originally had been pure Longbeards. This upset the Dunedain's worldview that a dwarf is a dwarf is a dwarf. As to chances of a pursuit group seeking their release - they assumed that there probably had been one but it could had been thrown of course by the meeting with the other group. The dwarrowdams were sure that having a choice whom to follow the rescue group would have chosen to follow them over males.

Leri had been abducted while picking mushrooms outside her village in the North Downs. Her folk were not of the Dunedain, but of the Hill Men. These previous subjects of the Witch King had drifted southwards into the post-war emptiness of the Lone Lands. Surprisingly she spoke Westron as her father was a potter and traded with Bree. Although of the same racial stock the Breelander's and Hill Men languages were no longer intelligible so Westron was used for communication. She had been originally abducted by a different group, purely orc but much better and smartly controlled than Club Head's.

Ashtuzual had the longest contact with slavery, having being sold to stave off starvation of her clan three years previously. She'd fetched the price of "almost a whole deer, a fox and two hares" for the Poisoned Arrow clan she came from. Her Clan had fallen on hard times and as an orphan she was the first out of the door. The times of hardship for the clan began with eight hunters, the best the clan had, agreeing to join a Black Warg clan raid on dwarrow trade caravans. The traders' guards had beaten off the attacks and the Poison Arrow hunters were sold as slaves by their traitorous brethren. The loss of these lads had ruined the clan's fortunes and hunger ensued. Ashtuzual knew the whole story as she had encountered one of her enslaved clan mates two years later.

She spent two years with the Crooked Spear clan, then a year as a camp fetch and carry and occasional bed warmer with a raiding band from the Yellow Fox. Two weeks ago Club Head's slaver's bought her to sell as a breeder as she was now of age to be whelped. Some Misty Mountain clans felt themselves to be on the path to greatness and needed ever more warriors, putting lasses like her in demand.

The band's intention was to sell the dwarrows first - at a Stonefoot dwarrow clan hold in the Etten Moors. Leri and Ashtuzual were to sold at the first orc den that would want them and then Club Head planned another trip West. The band constantly quarreled among themselves over an unsatisfactory catch, the men and the orcs respectively accusing one of damaging the value of the goods and the others of timidity.

During the busy afternoon clothes were washed and mended, food examined and repacked. All females had some sort of minor injuries which were treated with whatever medication was on hand - be it orcish or mannish. Gudrun was bedridden however. She was unconscious from the morning beating. Tarkil only prayed that she had no internal injuries as there was nothing he could about them. In such a case she would be dead soon. He used the local timber to prepare a stretcher for her. The planned order of march was for the females to carry light packs and take turns with the stretcher while the Rangers carried their full gear and watched out for trouble.

As they neither could nor wanted to take all the provisions they found with the slavers they decided to have a cold "eat all you can" lunch, and then two hefty stews for the evening and morn meals. Waste not want not was a well understood virtue and three good meals would do wonders for the females' strength.

The men were happy to find an axe – Aravir was fairly sure he heard Ingrid whisper "shoddy craftsmanship" to herself when she saw him using it – and fell several trees. The Rangers prepared a second, large fire at the leeward end of the camp and when it was burning nice and hot threw the first orc corpse into it. They were astonished to hear a high pitched screech and immediately turned their heads to the source – Ashtuzual had dropped the packs she was carrying and was gaping at them with terror in her eyes. Seeing that they were looking at her she bolted into the forest. They took off in pursuit.


	3. Cultural exchange

Terrified Ashtuzual cursed herself for her stupidity. She should had seen that these were not _shara_ sooner. The mannlings had behaved so clan-like towards them that it had her fooled. Oh, where did she have her eyes!? So stupid! They were too tall - but how she was to tell? Damned Mannlings were so much taller than her anyway. They also had those cruel grey eyes legends warned about ... The evil _tark-hai,_ the lackeys of the vile _golug-hai._ She kept on running, all the legends and bed time stories running through her mind. One vision of what awaited her once she was caught made her miss her step and almost take a tumble. Then she remembered it was only the _golug-hai_ who did THAT, the _tarks_ weren't THAT cruel. Nonetheless she shuddered at what the _tarks_ were capable off. Why didn't the other girls run? Didn't they know what these monsters were about to do them?! She gracefully darted through the thickets, picking the denser parts to slow down the much larger Ranger. But to no avail! She could hear the merciless killer catching up. She screamed as the _tark_ tackled her and brought her down. He threw her over his shoulder and carried back to the camp in the deepening twilight. The sight of his cold grey eyes pushed her over edge.

Tarkil threw the orcess over his shoulder. She went hysterical. She cried and sobbed and moaned and babbled in a mix of common and orcish. The words he picked out as repeated the most often were tark, fuck, pain and kill. Back at the camp together with Aravir they tied her up and went back to the corpse burning. They didn't have that much wood prepared for the task and they wanted to finish before the favourable wind abated or changed. They had no time for nonsense. Who'd have expected her to be so squeamish over her kind being burnt? And they were burning the men too, for Elbereth's sake! The other women kept an eye on still unconscious Gudrun and the stew. They also tried to sooth the orcess but she kept on a steady stream of whimpering. After throwing the last body into the fire Aravir walked up to the girls to calm down the Servant of Darkness and find out what her problem was. She screamed, tried to get away, pissed herself and fainted.

Bergdis took command.

\- "Whatever she sees in you it is something terrible. She's out of her wits, that's for sure. I've never seen her so cared before, even with the beatings and other things which happened."

– "What's to you what makes her react that way?" – She eyed them warily. – "There's no love lost between my folk and the Rangers, but you've been anything but decent to us, her too, and I've never heard anything _very_ bad about your kind. From reliable sources, that is ... as some stories would have you selling us to Mahal knows where. We'll take care of her while you try to keep out of her sight, huh?"

Appalled that she feared them so – although they had no idea why – the two Dunedain made themselves busy preparing a rough stretcher for tomorrow. Leri brought them the thick stew. They could hear the women talking quietly, bunched around the fire and next to Ashtuzual which they cleaned up and dragged closer to the warmth. They roused her but things stayed calm. They had peviously removed her bonds and the orcess lapped up her stew keeping the Rangers in view of the corner of her eye. The minion of the Dark Lord was visibly jittery.

After some time Bergdis walked up to and sat next to them. She had a twinkle in her eye and the corner of her mouth twitched.

\- "Orcs hold strange beliefs about Manlings, it seems." – she began. – " _tarks_ , that's how she calls you, not _shara_ like those three bastards and Leri, are the blood curdling stuff of orc legends. "

Aravir beckoned her to speed up.

\- "the short of it is that orcs are certain that after battle _tarks_ burn orc bodies because they like their orcflesh roasted. And after eating it go into a bloodfrenzy. They rip prisoners apart. They rape prisoners. The girl was expecting a very unpleasant death on your hands. To be raped and eaten at the same time." – the dwarrowdam could not but smile at the disturbing yet absurd image of the two soft spoken mannlings - one forcing himself on Ashtuazal, the other chewing her ears. – "When she came to she expected to see us beaten bloody crawling about and trailing our guts behind us, while you were making yourself merry ... "

\- "By the way, what are you planning to do with her? And with us? You said you'll take us back. How? We can talk around the fire, we got the girl sloshed with some orcish booze Club Head kindly left us. She's out cold."

The agreed plan was simple. They decided against sending Ashtuzual to her kin yet as with her there would be two pairs of bearers for stretcher duty. They would head directly south towards the Great East road. Gudrun would be carried by alternating teams of females while the Rangers were in combat readiness. Once reaching the road the orcess was to be sent to her kin to the east while the Children of Iluvatar - and of Aule too - were to follow it towards Bree, hoping for a caravan heading in that direction. Preferably dwarrow as it would put the three dwarrowdams with their people, freeing the Rangers to take Leri directly to her village. And even if the caravan was not headed for the Ered Luin the dwarves would take care of them. Ingrid and Bergdis assured the Rangers that they would know whether it is safe or not – the way they talked about the Firebeard clan put that kindred as not be much of an improvement over Club head's band. With no caravan they would head west along the road, hoping to catch up with one.

Tarkil guessed that they should reach the road at a point equidistant from Rivendell and the nearest Dunedain hold in the Angle. Not that the Rangers shared this piece of information. They kept those locations to themselves. They did not intend to head to either unless they were in danger or Gudrun's state advised it.

Ashtuzual came around to the soothing voice of Ingrid forcing stew upon her.

\- "Eat girl, eat." – she said gently, - "this soothes nerves."

The abomination of Melkor had a bowl in her hands thrust into her hands before she could protest. The dwarrows swore by Mahal on the nerve settling properties of thick stew and intimidated the orcess into eating. Ashtuzual had a spoon in her mouth before it came to her that nothing had happened. She was in one piece and unharmed, so were the others. Jerking her head about like a sparrow looking for seeds she sought out the _tarks._ They were quietly working on something at the edge of the camp.

\- "Shhhh" – Bergis calmed her down. – "They won't hurt you. We'll keep you safe. Put down that bowl now and tell us why are you so scared of them. ... good girl ... now take a swig of this. So you say they rip limbs off? And that orc ears are a delicacy? And what else?"


	4. The Run to the South - Part I

Aravir had the second watch. In the pre-dawn twilight he saw Ashtuzual get up with a groan. She noted his presence and that he was on guard duty.

\- "Have to pee and drink".

He gestured towards the stream.

He wondered if the women could be able to take part of the watch duties off them. At night the orcess' vision – she had immediately noticed him in the shade outside the light cast by the fire - as well as sense of smell could be useful ... he hit his forehead with the palm of his head. At night! This made him notice their oversight. They'd be marching during the day. How would Melkor's creation stand it? He had to talk with her once she was back. But could they trust her to stand watch? No, he said to himself. If they had doubts this meant that they did not, it was that simple.

Ashtuzual woke up. Her head hurt. Anxiously she checked herself for harm – there was none. It was the booze not the _tarks_ which gave the pain she felt. She _had_ to pee. She crawled up and saw the blue watchful eyes of the Ranger, the one called ... Arvir? Aravir? Avrir? He didn't move towards her just sat in the shadow under the tree which was a Good Thing. She stated her business and he waved her on. She checked the camp – all the women accounted for, the dwarrows' snoring drowning out any sounds made by the other Ranger, sleeping at some distance from the gaggle of girls.

She went over yesterday's events, the evening in particular, in her mind. She was surprised for Bergdis speaking up for her. Had the situation been reversed she probably wouldn't had done that. She had helped the _shakutarbik_ and the _sharlob_ to spite her owner and to spread the chores, beatings and rape over more bodies. In the previous band she was a _snaga_ just as she was now. But even though she did chores for the whole band her owner Orcobal kept her for himself and she was an orc and a member of the band, even if the lowliest. She was a step above any enslaved _shara_ or _shakutarbik_ who were nothing but temporarily held merchandise or food. Their fate nor welfare did not interest her at all. Under Club Head she became shared property. And abused too. As long as she was alive and could work Club Head did not care what was being done to her. To add insult to injury he did not mind the _shara_ picking on her. What little loyalty she might had given her owner and the band she replaced with hate and disdain.

From the moment the hostile takeover by the _tarks_ – as she now knew they were – put her under new ownership she couldn't grasp what was going on. The improvement in feeding she could understand – under Orcobal she had leant that if one bothered and looked around for such buyers, then one could find somebody ready to pay a premium for well kept slaves - a much better return rate than for the half-starved heavily beaten wretches the lazy and stupid Club Head delivered and sold to the first willing buyer he chanced upon. But arming them? The effort put into tending Gudrun? By her experienced eye making her saleable – besides for warg food - required a few weeks of dedicated care and good food. She understood that for _sport_ the Rangers had a choice – depending on views on profit maximisation - from between two and four lasses in reasonably good condition. They did not have to stick their cocks into the bloody rag Gudrun was at the moment. Killing her would have saved everybody the trouble and the dwarrow herself further suffering. Yet they allowed the other _shakutarbik_ to tend to her. As far as she could tell by her sense of smell, they hadn't taken any of the girls yet. Strange.

Yesterday's evening had undermined the accuracy of legends and common wisdom. Although it might had been that those two tarks, that day, did not roast the meat for eating (a waste, really) and did not want to go berserk (a good thing). She wondered about slipping off and seeking out other orcs. But she was afraid. One was the fear of the Wild itself. She was neither trained huntress nor warrior nor trapper to be able to survive on her own. The other was that with her brands she always could be identified as having been a slave. The moment this became known the orcs she ran into would be tempted to enslave her. And being an outsider she'd always be on the bottom of the food chain. She was too small and too weak to fight her way higher. Her own clan lived "somewhere far north" – that's all she knew. She decided to stay for a few days at least – with such food she'd gain much strength over a week's time.

They left camp in a small column. Tarkil took point. The walking females took the middle. They all had light packs and something sharp on them. Ingrid and Berdgis, having some training, were issued ex-orc sabres. Leri an axe, as she felt most confident with it having wood-chopping experience from home. Ashtuzual got a knife only, but Aravir had a sabre for her if she proved trustworthy. Ashtuzual was also well wrapped against the sun and sported a hood donated by a deceased orc's massacred cloak. They alternated in carrying the stretcher with Gudrun. Aravir took the rearguard.

Aravir let his mind wander and after a few minutes his brain and eyes had reset to their default settings. He was ogling the girls. The dwarrows and the orc were more less the same height, just over four feet if he eyeballed them correctly. But there the similarity ended. Ingrid and Bergdis were powerfully built, with short legs and relatively long torsos. Born sprinters, the realisation unexpectedly came to his mind. Although the height of a human child they were broadly built, their arms easily the thickness found on Manish males two heads higher. Not much of a waistline which, combined with the hips and shoulders being of similar breadth, made judging dwarrow gender indeed difficult. And they had incredibly thick hair. Small eyes, big ears, big noses, heavy jaws - a sort of masculine looking face. Ashtuzual had more Mannish proportions, with longer legs than the dwarfettes. But she was of much lighter built. Just Like a human girl, he would say. True, she was slightly bow legged, but he'd seen much worse among the race of Men. Women wore dresses or skirts, so he would not know. She also had a slight stoop – but was that habit or built he could not say.

Compared to them Leri was nothing remarkable. The daughter of the Men of Darkness was far from canons of Numenorean beauty – a head or more shorter, curly brown hair and blue eyes instead of straight raven tresses and grey eyes, and more curvy than was the norm among the women in the Angle. Or was the pleasant looking curviness due to lesser height? He put analysis of curviness aside, to some more appropriate, less crowded circumstances.


	5. The Run to the South - Part II

The column made good time southwards. Gudrun regained consciousness during their second day and slowly recovered, her bruises yellowing. One evening before sleep Tarkil asked about the females' expected homecoming. Leri teared up over _saudade_ , a term in her language for longing, for her family. She said that everybody, well, almost everybody will be overjoyed over her being alive, with a sour puss or too murmuring about her reputation. With there being no boy currently sweet on her there was no room for heartbreak. For some of her folk being brought back by Rangers would be as bad as being abducted by orcs in the first place.

With a giggle she showed them a cheap leather armband which was to ward against Evil Eye, Rangers' included.

Ingrid had much more to say on the subject. She began with a grim smile of sorts.

\- "Had we been from other clans, or even other parts of our kindred you'd have three dead bodies. For a dwarrow maiden to be enslaved that's bad enough, that's an incredible dishonour."

\- "Half of the time the family wouldn't have wanted her back even", she continued. - " If married the husband could dissolve the marriage just by declaring it ended. Goes both ways, wives could unwed captured husbands if the they wanted too. And even if accepted by the family she'd never find a good job. Some low level menial at best. Very, very unlikely to marry as the stigma passed on the couple. And raped at that? We would have slit our throats before you could stop us, you would have had no chance for that. "

\- "So what happened to – how did you put it – the other clans and parts of your kindred?"

\- "Smaug happened. Two hundred years ago Smaug – a powerful dragon - descended on the mostly Longbeard hold of Erebor and massacred the dwarrow there. The rest fled and wandered about Rhovanion and Eriador. Terrible times of living under the open sky, of starvation, of elvish and mannish indifference, of orcish harassment. Many of the Wanderers – as they've become to be called - died. And - no longer protected by earth and stone or travelling in well defended caravans – the danger of abduction was high. In those days many were abducted and then rescued, with a dwarrow being taken and freed several times not constituting an unheard off event. Now think that the Wanderers were remnants of families once numbering tens of dwarrows. Which now could be counted on the fingers of a single hand. Having your wife, mother, daughter, sister or niece return from slavery alive meant more than the fact that they had enslaved and dishonoured. One no longer had ten, twenty, thirty family and cousins. Often they were your only family. And that overruled everything else. Even the dworc in their bellies if they had been unlucky. "

Aravir had never heard this hideous word before; the very sound of it made his teeth hurt, but its meaning was clear from context.

\- "What happened to them."

\- "They were cleansed or drowned after birth. But some are suspected to have been kept, if their father's features were no so apparent. The ears could be dealt with a knife. Passing a child as a foundling in those days was easy – lots of orphans around. And it was impolite to ask too many questions where did a child come from – all were cherished to best of whatever means there were. Not that many bothered to ask in those days, or so the older folks say."

\- "And the women? "

\- "They went back to their lives. The only thing which mattered was that they were alive. But like I said, that's us, the Erebor Wandering Folk. The Western Exiles is another name. And now the Blue Mountain dwarrows too, Broadbeams mostly. As there are so many Exiles in the Blue Mountains intermarried with the Broadbeams. Elsewhere – like I said – even today dwarrowdams would had killed themselves if raped like us, or – if only enslaved – upon their return they'd slide to the bottom of society. Well, we _will_ get odd looks until our beards grow back ...

\- "What?"

\- "we get our beards back. To shame us further the scum shaved us, all three of us. But it'll grow back. Like I was saying, before the beards come back we will get an odd look or too, but that's all. It is not polite to talk about capture by orcs, or anybody else for that matter. It happened, we are back, it is impolite to talk about it, end of story. "

Ashtuzual did not understand much of what had been said. Orc society was different and her knowledge of it limited by both age and having been enslaved while still a child. What she did understand was that the _shakutarbik_ shared orcs' sentiment of _once a snaga, always a snaga_. And that dwarrow girls should kill themselves after being raped – an idiotic notion. What a fucked up bunch they were! She kept this thought to herself.

She kept many thoughts to herself during the brisk march. Especially that many of them were confused and she had nobody to share them with. The _shakutarbik_ and _sharlob_ seemed to believe that the _tarks_ will release them. Are they too stupid too live, she wondered? It was a fantastic ploy to obtain their cooperation. The mannlings had living gold in their hands and surely they wouldn't just throw it away. Although the southern direction of their trek did seem fishy – that's where the _tarks_ and _golug hai_ lived! Some things she knew from Orcobal, some from the quarrels in this band. Breedable _shakutarbik_ were a rare and – among those who knew their value - a highly sought for commodity. Breeding them was hard, no more than two whelps out of one could be expected, as they either died in childbirth or managed to kill themselves. And getting those two dworcs could take five or six winters! While a well fed orcess could have three whelps every two winters for many winters. But the dworcs apparently were worth it. She'd never seen one, but Glush described them – almost with reverence - as the ideal warrior. The height of a tall orc but almost twice as broad, strong like a bear. Could see in dark much better than a half-mannish _balaak._ The _tarks_ were ingenious – instead of whipping them on their way they conned the _shakutarbik_ to run to their fate. She smiled - it did well for a _snaga's_ status to have a clever master. Or masters, in her case – she hadn't worked out yet which one was the boss.

Like every _snaga_ ever made the moment her task was complete she pretended to be busy, to make herself scarce or to loaf. When caught she'd be put on the next tasks with a kick or cuff and much yelling. Here she was requested – more or less gently – to help others. She allowed herself to be commanded by the other women as they were evidently favoured over her at the moment. The lack of beatings, a half-playful cuff at the head or even curses was astonishing. She noticed that the others did not need to be told but helped out the slower or more tired members of the group of their own accord. It simply was expected. On the third day she reluctantly started showing initiative.


	6. Angst followed by happiness

Ashtuzual's world collapsed around her. Again. The _tarks_ ran into a caravan of the _dagrîhtolal flokûrz_ and let all the _shakutarbik_ and the _sharlob_ go with them. And now the Masters did not want her. They wanted to send her away.

She was on her knees clutching at Aravir's and Tarikil's legs and wailing:

\- "I will be a good _snaga_. I will be a betterer _snaga_ than I before! I am sorry to disappoint Masters! How can I please Masters? I will whip myself to please Masters! I will be the bestest _snaga_ evah!"

The two Rangers were at a loss what to do. After an uneventful week long trekk and two days of walking West they had the good fortune of a large dwarrow caravan from Erebor to the Grey Havens catching up with them. The caravan's guard 2nd in command was Groin son of Robur, Gudrun's brother. Bergdis daughter of Borur knew him personally too. There was no need to ask for help in getting the dwarrowdams' home, the dwarrows gave the impression that they were ready to take them out of the Mannlings care _per fas et nefas_. Amidst choruses of "at your service" and "at your family's" the sons of Numenor arranged for the escort of Leri to her village. Shaken over his sister's torment and rescue Groin swore by his curly beard that he will personally take the mannling girl home.

After entrusting most of their charges to the dwarrows and biding them goodbye the Rangers turned their attention to the orcess.

\- "Ashtuzual, here is your share of the loot" - Aravir said and gave her the pouch. – "And here is a sabre for you. Tomorrow we march east and we will hand you over to the first band of orcs we come across. We promise to take you to your kind. Are you happy?".

That was a few minutes ago.

\- "Judging by the wailing which broke out she was not," - Tarkil thought sarcastically. Her shrieks were starting to give him a headache. – "Maybe we should think this over and ask her why this scares her so", he spoke out loud switching to their mother tongue, Sindarin.

\- "Now you speak _golug_ and you do me something nasty ..." – the lackey of darkness was slipping towards hysteria.

Looking at the quite smooth, barely marred and blingless face Tarkil had a thought.

\- "Ashtuzual", - he tried to interrupt the sobs, - "Ashtuzual ... "

\- "Ma ... Ma ... ster?"

\- "How old are you? In winters?" – The elder of the Rangers switched to Westron.

\- "Neigh ... neigh ... nine ... "

The Rangers looked at one another and reddened under the tan which brought out the best of their rugged manly scruffiness. According to the Globlinlore Master at the Angle orcs aged half faster than the race of Men. So the snotty creature grovelling in the dust before them was _not_ an unusually acquiescent adult example of the black hearted species – as they had assumed and tried hard to be civil to. It was a _girl_ pushing fourteen. They felt stupid for not having asked about her age a week before.

Aravir pulled her up to her feet. They walked a bit and sat on a log.

\- "Tell us again, slowly, why do you not want to go back to your kind."

()()()()()()()()()

\- "We have left markings for others but one of us must go to Imladris or the Angle and report that we left our patrol area. And we cannot take her to neither place. So we must break up. And it is I who has to report."

Aravir grinned – "Inzilbeth would be interested in Ashtuzual's offer of "I give Master good time", - he ribbed his friend.

Tarkil was not amused. The lust filled nights of the Angle had given him three daughters, two younger sisters and – at latest count – nine nieces. This coloured his perceptions of underage females.

He snorted dismissively – "It's not my wife I'd be worried about. It's my Father who'd fleece me alive for even thinking 'bout her that way!"

\- "But we are in a pickle – leave her in the wild – we might as well kill her ourselves. Give her to the orcs – again, death on our hands may had been a mercy. Going by what she says and what we know of her kind she'd be dinner or a slave very, very quickly."

\- "We should have sent her away on the first day. Or let her go when she ran off when we burned the bodies."

"You were too quick on your feet." – Aravir pondered the events which had brought them to this point.

\- "We still don't know would that had made a difference - making her leave while she was still scared of us. She'd be dead the same."

\- "Yeh, what's done is done. We are now guardians of an orcish girl ... _bagal_!"

They grinned over the use of a newly learned swear word.

\- "You go to the Angle and I'll return north with our little flower. You come up with something intelligent to put in the report. Better you than me."

Tarkil groaned and put his face in his hands. – "What to report to the Chieftain?".

He snorted with amusement.

\- "Sweet Elbereth, the current Chieftain's heir sharing a campfire with an orc ... maiden. The gossips and the matchmakers of the Angle would have something to say about this, eh? Whom were they trying to set you up with lately?"

Aravir gave a low growl. – "Never mind. Now that Aragorn is back from the South they are chasing him. And fair game, he is the Chieftain and heirs are his business. I'm a cadet branch. And if I'm dead then there are many descendants of Arathorn the Elder to replace me."

\- "And you take good care of her, or I'll take it out of your hide."

\- "Father of Darkness be praised!", Ashtuzual kept on repeating to herself. The Masters had relented and let her stay! Master Tarkil had to go and report to the _tark_ Warlord in the secret _tark_ den so she got to stay with Master Aravir only. They were to look for orcs and _shara_ raiders. Not that it mattered to her whom exactly they were hunting. She had been in an orc band preying on _shara_ and _shakutarbik_ and orc, then in a mixed orc and _shara_ band preying on everybody else again. And now she was in a _tark_ band hunting orc and "bad _shara-hai_ ", however these might be. What mattered was that she was alive and with a good Master. Although she now had to move around during the hours of the _Angry Face_ , _tarks_ not being able to see much in the light of the _Cold Face,_ the masters had been kind and thought about protecting her skin and eyes as much as possible. Life was good. She was well fed and cared for. The Masters did not hurt her when she was good, and only hissed and cursed a bit when she did something wrong. She was a happy orc.

 _dagrîhtolal flokûrz_ * hairy goat fuckers

 _Per fas et nefas_ * by right and wrong

 _bagal!_ * shit!


	7. Lack of choices

It had been a week since breaking up. Aravir was back on station and contemplated his changed circumstances. The warm body at his thigh probably turned his thoughts in that direction, he mused. He had experience with both solo and two man patrols and this was neither. The girl, the orcess, took part of the load off him, but could not share the ranger type of duties. But having somebody to talk to was nice anyway. As well as not having to gather all the firewood, or having an extra pair of hands to set traps for small animals. Even if her "might is right" and "do it to them before they do it you" outlook sometimes gave him urges to strangle her.

With consideration for her visible discomfort in strong sunlight they adopted a routine for such days – they took a break around noon, which they compensated by stopping for the night later. And then it was Ashtuzual which took care of many tasks, as he could no longer see outside the light cast by the campfire. This was one of those sunny days and the get of the Poisoned Arrow clan was curled up and entirely hidden under a blanket alongside his right leg. Her warmth felt pleasant.

Well, pleasant or not, there was the problem of what do with her. Maybe teaching her skills which would improve her status once she was back with her kind? But wouldn't that be reinforcing the forces of the shadow? What sort of skills he and Tarkil could teach her that were not - in some way - related with combat? Maybe if they got somebody to teach her midwifery ... but that also meant more orc raiders in Eriador twelve and more years later. He did not like not having alternatives but this was looking like a no-win scenario.

She shifted and the top of her head and the tip of her ear were now visible from under the blanket. He looked at the ear – so much like an elf's, he wondered. Were the legends of the orcs' origins true?

He slowly resigned himself to further care of the swarthy mite. He was fairly sure that between himself and Tarkil they could keep her alive while on patrol. He prayed for there being no emergency and recall from station. The odd courier they could browbeat and deal with the consequences later, explaining the orcess in their midst, but officers were a different matter – if ordered to send her away they would have to comply. They'd refuse to kill her - as if that would change anything - the others would do so without an eyblink. Just as he would have had a fortnight ago. She was now a person to him, he didn't think that she deserved to die - he did not want to have her blood on his hands. To keep his mind of the worst case scenario he began to go over a list of wintering possibilities, even the least likely. He chuckled at absurd thought of holeing up with the orcs. The orcs would be delighted to have a self-delivered _tark_ to _play_ with, he snorted. Orc friendly Hill Men and "bad" dwarrows – even if they managed not to get killed getting "in", he had serious doubts about getting out alive or not in chains. He had not enough experience with Dunlendings to have an opinion. It was only from hearsay that he knew that in the south one could run into individuals looking suspiciously like human-orc mixed-breeds. But seeing's believing, he thought. Asking to be assigned to the Glanduin Valley seemed like a good idea for next year. Maybe the Hill Men settlements in the north - like Leri's - would tolerate them? Or maybe they could rent a cabin on the outskirts of Breeland and keep their heads low? At the other end of the spectrum there was Imladris, the Angle or Dwarrow holds – they would be turned away at best or Ashtuzual shot on sight at worst.

()()()()()()()()

After delivering his abridged account of the events to the Chieftain's Council – the Chieftain being in the Wild as was his wont – Tarkil set out back. He was to ride to the border post and leave the horse there. But he could not resist the urge to visit his family. It would delay him by more than a day but after the latest events he had witnessed he felt an irrational compulsion to check on his wife and daughters – Almarian, Elwing, and Miriel. He hoped that Aravir will forgive him the detour.

Inzilbeth was surprised by her husband's homecoming. Since they had married fifteen years before he only showed up when his postings were over. Such one or two day visits like this one were extremely rare. Such was the lot of a Ranger's wife she shared with several thousand other women in the Angle. Although not of the Dunedan by birth herself she had learned to live with it. She had not expected to see Tarkil before the winter snows.

He was very tense until he was sure that all four of them were present. This was unusual as usually homecoming was a joyous affair for him. Hugging her and the girls, then bathing and eating supper with them, listening to their everyday stories slowly relaxed him. Yet she could see that something haunted him. She did not press him. Looking sternly at the girls he had impressed on them to stay within earshot of the house at all times unless attended by adults.

To her surprise and disappointment at night he was not interested in lovemaking. He just held her in her arms and said he was not in the mood.

– Yavanna! The remaking of the world was Nigh! As if men needed mood for that! – she thought, trying hard not to snort.

\- Was it something during the patrol? – she asked. He had only told them that - together with that Isildur's line brat, Aravir - they had rescued some females – dwarrows mostly – from slavers.

\- Is there more to the story than you've said?

He grunted.

Seeing that he was not forthcoming she let sleeping orcs lay. He will tell her, eventually. He always did. Probably while chopping wood and looking away from her. That seemed to be the way in men talked about things which troubled them. She snuggled to him as this was what he appeared to need this night. And it felt good to be in his arms anyway.

Before leaving Tarkil got a good armful of all his girls and drank in all the exotic beauty of his wife he could. Their images in his memory made bearing the Lone Lands easier for him.


	8. Meeting, Social Mores, Philosophy

Upper Hoarwell Valley

Ashtuzual sniffed. This immediately drew Aravir's attention. He had learned to trust her nose.

\- _Shakutarbik-hai_ – she said in a low voice. Normally he would have corrected her, as part of his work on improving her Westron, but this might not be the time to impress the need of using the word "dwarrow".

The five dwarrows were grim and grimy. Dressed for war as much as their evidently rather humble station could afford. No mail, but a mixture of thick and boiled leathers. They were armed with general purpose items – axes and mattocks. He noted two orcish sabres – probably fresh spoils as not yet cleaned to a dwarrow standard.

While looking at the stubble of dwarrows something about them tugged at his mind. There was something wrong about them, they looked out of place. Then he cursed himself for not asking the orcess a simple question two weeks before. He turned to the dark shape at his elbow and finally did. He was unhappy with the answer.

He stood next to a tree where the dwarrows would have to see him once they were some thirty paces from him. He managed to communicate his peaceful intentions by showing empty hands before they managed to scream _Baruk Khazad!_ and charge. Which would have made him take to his heels. They just approached him cautiously, weapons at the ready. Up close he could see his hunch was right. He was going to make them happy and heartbroken at the same time and he loathed it.

He identified two by their family resemblance, greatly assisted by their lack of beards. _Lack of beards?_ He put that aside for later.

\- Master Borur? Master Robur? - He addressed respective dwarrows to their utter astonishment. The four foot wall advancing on him stopped. He interrupted their sputtering of "how?" and "what?" with a polite:

\- "Aravir son of Arador, at your service and your families'" and threw in a slight bow for good measure. The dwarrows reciprocated with introductions and "at your services'".

As he expected one of the other dwarrows was Faram – Ingrid's father, the others being Ingikarr – Ingrid's brother and Kafli – the father of one of the captured boys. Two of the other boy's were Faram's and one Robur's.

Aravir brought credit to his diplomacy teachers by managing to communicate that their daughters were safe while keeping Ashtuzual alive and telling them that they had completely lost the trail of their sons. The orc settlement which served as Orcobal's base of operations lay north of the Ettenmoors and he must have reached it at least a fortnight ago.

As the girls' had suspected their fathers made chase but were thrown off by the reshuffling of captives – thus they had followed the larger group led by Orcobal with male slaves. They had quickly lost track after a rain but moved forward quickly as to overtake the slave train. They now ranged to the west of the Misty Mountains hoping to run into the caravan and killing all orcs they came across. The shaved beards represented their loss of honour for allowing their children to be taken.

For three sennights afterwards the Ranger team struck up a profitable partnership with the dwarrows. Tarkil – although expected sooner - caught up with them four days later. The eight of them took to orc hunting in the south foothills of the Ettenmoors with gusto, taking on bands which two Rangers would usually give wide berth to. Ashtuzual was just as enthusiastic as everybody else, explaining:

\- "These fucks ain't my clan".

Once their need for revenge was somewhat satiated, the dwarrows left. Forward looking Aravir had prudently arranged the possibility of visiting and wintering with them.

The Angle

Inzilbeth beamed at the sight of Olwina and her brood at the farm's gate. She liked the cheerful chubby Dunlending and her children. Both being non-Dunedain they were given the cold shoulder by part of the hamlet's inhabitants. Interestingly, "thoroughbreds" and the "mixed bloods" – and thanks to the gossip mill at the laundry washing stones they knew every family's lineage half way back to Numenor – were equally likely to shun as to accept them. Looking at the mix of black, brown and blonde hair of their children playing she suddenly thought about Olwina getting it worse. Tarkil was quarter Breelander anyway, whereas her husband Beleguron was of Numenorean lineage as pure as Isildur's piss. She cast a sideways glance at her father in law, Aithon.

He must have guessed what she was thinking about as he smiled and said:

\- "Thinking about the different hair colours of the bairns, are you, girl?"

She nodded.

\- "I got a good earful myself when I began courting Tarkil's mother. Morgoth's Third Coming, you'd think it was by listening to some of them, a true son of Numenor courting a Breelander mongrel." – His mouth twisted in disdain as he quoted the hurtful words of yesteryear.

\- "I sometimes like to flatter myself that I never made it past Ensign rank because of Glynda. Sometimes it is difficult to say whether one simply was not good enough or one had to be twice as good enough ... "

Olwina was holding her hand to her mouth.

\- "So you are saying that my Beleguron will never make it captain because of me? Some of the men and women as well have said that he's overdue for promotion and they cannot understand it why Gellamon was given the vacancy... "

\- "Aye, not everybody can see what's right in front of them. Call it an old man's bitterness but few Rangers with wives from outside the Angle – or simply with blood from outside the Angle – make it captain. In my time I've only known two who did yet by my judgement at least half a dozen more were of merit. So," – he addressed Olwina– "don't be surprised if your Beleguron waits another twenty or forty years for his bordered star."

\- "But don't feel bad," - he added quickly. – "He knew what he was doing, he chose you. That's what matters."

Nonetheless the stout woman looked pensive and saddened.

\- "And what about Tarkil," - Inzilbeth asked with trepidation that her father in law could hold his son's loss of perspectives for promotion against her.

\- "As much as it saddens a father to say this, daughter, he ain't got it." – He smiled at her.

\- "He doesn't have the drive, the dose of ruthlessness which makes a leader. He'd never had made it past Ranger even had he married the Chieftain's daughter - had there been one." – He said with a chuckle.

\- "You got the kinder hearted of my sons".

As if Inzilbeth needed any reminder of the fact, she grimaced inwardly.

Seeing that Olwina was untangling the wee ones from a furball created by some Dramatic Occurrence and out of earshot Aithon continued.

\- "Had it been Thannor in Tarkil's place he'd have hardened his heart and not said a word to you. He has his ambitions, that son of mine. Maybe even the Eldermen Council." – He said in a voice not letting on whether he approved or not.

At further mention of Thannor Inzilbeth's lips became a think line and her eyes took upon the hardness of steel.

\- "For the fool he is a captaincy would be worth more than you," - his opinion about his son's hypothetical choices was now evident.

Inzilbeth's eyes teared up. She leaned over the bench and hugged the ex-Ranger.

\- "I was so worried ... "

Aithon interrupted her

\- "You are the best thing that happened to my son since his mother died. Never doubt that."

He kissed the top of her head and hugged her back with his good arm.

A sudden thought made her look up at her daughters. And their lessened marriage prospects. Her almost _too_ perceptive father in law noticed her suddenly tensing body and sighed.  
\- "Think about it this way" – he said rubbing her back, - "maybe fewer lads will come a courting, but those who do will actually care about our lasses."

Upper Hoarwell Valley

Once Tarkil caught up with Aravir and Ashtuzual and the dwarrows had left certain actions and tasks became routine. After supper the men took their smokes while the available child labour was used to wash the dishes in the stream. The said workforce sang softly to herself and appeared to be unhindered by the falling darkness. The men sat in meaningful silence, pregnant with thought. Finally Tarkil ejaculated sagely.

\- "We behaved like orcs back then".

Aravir guessed what his elder was on about. He himself was troubled by what they had done - or let the women do, which was the same thing - after breaking up the slaver's camp:

\- "Yeah. But two days listening ... " - he shook his head as if to clear it - " ... it seemed to do right by the women".

\- "Yeah. Let's try not to do it again" – Tarkil finished the philosophical debate.

Aravir continued on thinking about it though. The very same quirk of breeding which robbed him of several inches of his Numenorean heritage – making him a mere six footer - had also replaced grey eyes with blue. Some daring women had told him that looking in his eyes made it hard for them to keep their knees together. A few men, however, told him he had the eyes of an eager torturer. Did they see something in him which he himself could not? He quickly abandoned such irrelevant thoughts. He switched to thinking about the ground they were to scout tomorrow.

**AN:**

Chapter inspired by tommyginger


	9. Does this make my butt look fat?

Southern foothills of the Ettenmoor Mountains

Ashtuzual liked the time when the dwarrows were with them. And particularly after Master Tarkil came back. Once the _Shakutarbik_ had calmed down and stopped casting murderous glares in her directions, they proved to be excellent fighters. Previously she'd known them as pathetic slaves, now she saw their warrior side. Strong and difficult to overturn in combat. Twice as strong as orcs of their height. She could now understand the fascination with dworcs. Maybe she could whelp a dworc? Even though the dwarrows were barf-hurling ugly dropping such a warrior could be worth it. She'd gain prestige and a potent defender if the whelp survived to eight or ten. Naturally she'd need the Master's permission. But it was not her time and would not be for two months at least.

With there being eight of them they now were a proper warband. Small, but a warband nonetheless. The Masters had given her a bow taken from one of the hunters they had killed, some useless git from the Split Rib clan. Master Tarkil taught her the bow, while Master Aravir the sabre. She guarded their backs in the clashes with raider warbands and patrols and slaver or trader caravans coming down from the mountains. She helped track them down and then run down the survivors. She stood proud and tall, no longer a fetch and carry _snaga_ but a huntress and warrior. Well, in training, if she was to be honest about it. Still, she already had eight kills to her credit.

She was a bit disappointed that there was no _sport_ afterwards. All wounded opponents were killed quickly. The dwarves did not seem to mind that much. They even seemed to be eager to kill as many as fast as possible, trying to outdo one another. When she asked the Masters about the lack of _sport_ they made a face which – as far as she had learnt to understand their expressions – meant that they were sad and unhappy. She did not understand neither the sadness nor the unhappiness – but due to the latter she kept to the other side of the camp. Just in case they would vent.

Watching how the warband worked was fascinating for her. The first few days after joining forces with the dwarves she ate her portion with lightning speed, to finish before anybody stronger came for her part. But nobody ever came. Then she noticed that portions were more or less equal, the leaders not getting extra. There was no fighting over food, everybody simply ate their share and seconds – if there any and if they fancied some. She always took seconds. She had always been hungry, as far as she could remember. She was not letting any food go to waste, i.e. be eaten by somebody else.

Besides there being no fights over food, there were no fights at all. There were death glares, baring of the useless dull teeth and snarls and grunts worthy of an orc, but there was no fighting for position. Everybody knew that Master Tarkil was Boss, and Master Aravir his second, while among the dwarrows the boss was Faram. The normal course of affairs appeared to be the three of them, sometimes with another dwarrow participating, to work out what to do. With no cuffing behind the ears, too.

The division of the loot was highly unfair, however. The Dwarrows took almost everything, the Masters almost nothing. And they did not think of her at all. After dressing and equipping her with loot they never took anything for her. She literarily bled inside seeing pretty baubles being discarded and left behind but was afraid of complaining, complaints brought punishment. But after one skirmish Master Tarkil must have seen her eyes or heard her whimper – _had she lost control and whimpered out loud_? – so now she had a necklace, bangles, three rings, a fancy belt, and a pouch with "pretty things". The Master let her rummage for such things and keep them, while they themselves only took what they needed at the moment. They did ensure she got her share of coins if there were any, though. They forbid her to make piercings, though, and no whimpering and grovelling broke down their resistance. Such obsequiousness seemed to make them angry with her. Nonetheless over such an important matter she tested the limits of how far she could go without provoking a beating and afterwards was scared of her own insolence. Though irritated, the Masters did not hit her. But still no piercings. Master Aravir had glared at her with those terrifying blue eyes – she thought his eyes were much more terrifying than the infamously _tarkish_ grey eyes of Master Tarkil – and told her he'll rip the offending pieces of metal or bone out of her skin himself. Her last thought while sobbing herself to sleep was "stupid old _tarks_ don't know what makes a lass pretty!"

One day she asked the dwarrows why they were taking all the weapons –they had only two arms each, so why carry half a dozen sabres about like Robur. The explained that back home they would melt down the metal and reuse it. She knew about smiths so she understood what they wanted to do, but did not understand why. She asked why – the sabres were sharp and killed well enough. They gave her a long story about workmanship, with many Westron words she did not know. Probably to make her feel stupid 'cause she's an orc. Or a lass. Or both. Hairy fat bastards! Lice in their beards is too good for the likes of them!

Listening to the dwarrows she realised that they had histories with one another going tens of years. She was fascinated when they told her that they had between seventy and two hundred and ten years. Not that she believed them. But then again, some warbosses were reputed to be hundreds of years old, and some to have seen Morgoth Himself.

The sires of the dwarrowdams asked her about their daughters. What she told them made them barely restrain themselves in their anger and fury. This made her edgy and she kept close to Masters. She hoped very strongly, she was close to _certain_ that they would protect her. They did vent their fury on the other orcs and occasional Hill Men, not on her. She could well see that what the girls had told her was true – their sires cared for them, even the male sibling did. She vaguely wondered what their mothers were like.


	10. Those critical days and blown cover

September 2981 – Northern Arnor, between North Downs and Ettenmoors

Since the Dwarrows left the trio had patrolled across the lands which once nourished the mighty kingdom of Rhuadur. They moved slightly Westwards, as skirmishing with orcs patrolling approaches to their dens was not their task anymore. It was not very exciting and hard on the bodies of those involved.

The game was quite good and between their arrows and traps, and all the wild berries and fruit offered by the summer Ashtuzual's body began to fill out. The Heat, her fourth ever, hit like never before. She spent three days in enormous discomfort, itchy, edgy, incapable of sitting down, suffering sudden heat waves. She felt the urge to rub her crotch against something. Tarkil watched her, thoughtfully, and ordered camp earlier. He told Aravir to take a good tour around the camp and instructed him to be on the lookout for certain plants. He then sat down himself comfortably at the small fire and asked the girl to join him. Looking anywhere but at her he asked:

\- "Do orcish lasses bleed? What do they do then?"

Once that area was covered and appropriate garments chosen to be converted to a new role Ashtuzual turned to the Ranger.

\- "I'm so jittery and shaky and jumpy and sweaty 'cause I want to whelp."

She hadn't noticed before that his grey eyes were _that_ big and so round, so unlike slanted orcish eyes. He also seemed to have some problems with breathing.

\- "I'm in heat. I never had it so hard before. I don't know what's happening. Before it was three days – it's the third day today, still strong and I feel I'll still have it tomorrow. Do you know what's happening to me?" - She looked expectantly at the Ranger.

\- "Could it be that I have it stronger now 'cause I'm stronger?" – she continued. –

"At the den the lasses that were allowed to breed were given more meat so that the sprogs would be stronger once they're dropped. I've never eaten so much since you've taken me on, now I've got bigger tits and more bum than I ever had before. Could it be it?" – she looked up to the married Ranger to say something to alleviate her worries over what nature was doing to her well toned body – now with curves in the appropriate places.

"Can you help?"

Tarkil's heartbeat was almost back to normal. When she had casually mentioned begetting he was horrified that she was expecting him to be the father. He found it abhorrent as he had grown to think about her as one of his many nieces. Almost like a fourth daughter. Gathering his wits about he recalled that she mentioned previous such cases, so it was not that she _must_ , but that she _could_. That was a relief ...

\- "I was thinking and I didn't hear you properly. Could you say that again?" – He said weakly.

He voiced his support for her theory, vaguely remembering some overheard conversation between women talking that some girl or other was ill, was very weak and didn't have courses for several months.

\- "And your daughters - they got the Heat already? When do mannling lasses get it the first time? Do you give them herbs to calm them down and not jump the lads? I was eight, but it varies a lot, some lasses get it the first time at seven, some at nine."

Once Tarkil got through answering this dose of questions, he was immediately deluged by another. The orcess apparently had been damming up her curiosity about mannling females and now let it flow all out.

\- "Can the lads smell it on them? 'Casue you didn't smell on me, as you'd be talking with me earlier. But maybe you couldn't 'cause you're _tark_ and I'm orc. So, can the lads smell it on them? Is it you who decides who whelps them? Or your _shauk_? The ... war boss? The den boss? As among orcs it's the den boss, she's almost as important as the war boss, who decides which lass whelps or not. That's in a good den, that is. Now I'm older I see things better - my den was poorly run. Too many whelps, not enough grub. That's why they sold me off. "

He set out to brave this battery of questions, answers to which often were difficult and not always of the sort he wished to think about.

\- "The lads, the men – we can't smell anything. But by behaviour we often known which boy the lass favours - ummm... well .. to a certain extent we leave it to our daughters themselves to decide who it is she wants to spend her life with and bear children by ( _provided her blood is pure enough for he-of-Isildur's piss purity of bloodline,_ he added bitterly to himself; _or the dowry large enough_ ) both families will go along with what they want. My wife – Inzilbeth - would certainly have a say ( _although not all men listen to their wives in this regard_ ) - so if there was something about the man she found objectionable ..."

\- "Like what?" – Ashtuzual interrupted.

\- "Well...if she thought his people were not good...did not teach him the right way to treat our daughter...or if she thought he was likely to beat her."

The orcess frowned and asked seriously

\- " _Tark_ beat their _shauk_? All _tark_? Some _tark_?"

 _\- "_ Sadly sometimes this happens ..."

"... as to choice of man for daughter ... if he might desert her and her children."

\- " _Tark_ leave _shauk_ with whelp? What do you do?"

\- "Well...uh .. I would want to make sure he knows that if he does not take care of my daughter...does not cherish her and protect her and do everything in his power to make her happy...that I will personally kill him."

\- "You're a good _krank_ then" – she beamed at him.

She grilled him, struggling with new concepts, as did he, trying to explain – or simply put into words - things which were never talked about as they were simply accepted as they were. They were unsure whether spouse meant the same thing to Men as _shauk_ to Orcs or was _krank_ the same as father.

Aravir talked into the camp to hear an animated screech -

\- "EVERY MOON!? How GHASTLY!"

To Ashtuzual's surprise Tarkil refused to talk on female subjects once Aravir was present.

()()()()()()()()()()()

Twice they managed to hide Ashtuzual from messengers bearing and collecting messages, once by accident and once by design.

But three time's a charm ... and the inevitable happened.

\- "What the fuck is that!" – The Ranger roared entering the camp.

Ashtuzual fled and cowered behind Master Tarkil. What she had seen in that new Ranger's eyes made Master Aravir's glare almost non-menacing. Almost.

\- "That is Ashtuzual. She is with us" – Tarkil was serenity incarnate.

– "She is not the orc you are looking for ..."

\- "You know fuck all what fucking orc I was looking for! What the fucking fuck is going on?! Why is a pair of rangers dragging an orc around? What is it doing ALIVE? What ... "

His eyes opened wider in a mix of understanding and incredulity - his jaw dropped.

– "you FUCKING dirty perverts you ... you are FUCKING her!?"

He immediately had Tarkil in his face -

– "You filthy minded balrog slaying troll asswipe! I'd sooner fuck your hairy ass than touch a child like her!"

The subject of the uproar stood back, wondering whether fists would fly or would they draw knives? Should she knife the new _tark_ in the back or would Master Tarkil be annoyed for stealing his kill?

After some time the yelling subsidised to angry conversation.

\- "Get it into your head that she's been with us for half a year yet we are still alive!"

\- "Tell me what you will but it is absolutely unthinkable for Rangers to range with an orc, be it a girl child or not. I'm reporting this to the captain and then to the Council. This stinks of Corruption and Treason!"

\- "If you are going the Angle then please take this missive with you. It is from my companion to the Council."

\- "And who this companion might be."

\- "The Chieftain's Heir."

()()()()()()()()()()()()

With assistance of TommyGinger.


	11. Wintering and spring fashions

Late October 2981 – Northern Arnor, between North Downs and Ettenmoors

Aravir and Ashtuzual moved out at dawn. While bidding good-bye the swarthy slip of a girl clung to the tall Ranger, the two in tight embrace. To avoid any orders which might directly demand – or indirectly force them into – abandoning their unusual ward, Tarkil pleaded with his colleague to take her West. Had the son of Arador not agreed, he would had taken care of her himself, but Inzilbeth and the girls would be very, very unhappy with him as it would put off their reunion by some three or four months, if not more. And he yearned to see them again.

The blue eyed Ranger was not so happy about the situation. He understood that he had to do what he had to do, but this still did not improve his mood. Until they found a way of safely giving the pointy eared dark flower away, they were stuck with her. It was either taking care of her or being responsible for her death. He took her under his wing for the winter for two reasons. One being that he himself had stayed his hand and spared her life, way back in May. In his eyes not killing her put made her life – as she was not of Age - in some way his responsibility. Yet the main reason was Tarkil. He had been his close friend for over thirty years, never caring for his lofty lineage nor position. For the umpteenth time Aravir wondered was it the part Breelander's lack of perspectives for advancement that kept him from revealing even a hint of bootlicking. His brother, on the other hand ... Nonetheless once Tarkil married Inzilbeth and had Duvaindes his colleague had become a new man. He was now a veritable mother hen and went fatherly on any female below five feet within eyesight or earshot. He'd take care of Ashtuzual for Tarkil's sake alone. And for a chance to have a go at Inzilbeth's pickled cabbage once he returned to the Angle.

They found the village of Leri's folk without much trouble. Her family loved him and was more accepting of the orcish girl than he had hoped for. The reactions of the rest of the village were _interesting_ to say the least. The Ranger got more death glares than Ashtuzual did. This made Aravir chalk off the village as one to keep a good eye in the future. Two Rangers on permanent station for a year - that'd be his recommendation to the Council.

Well before they outstayed their welcome - but driven by fears over a possible early winter - they struck out west again. They were rested, with full bellies and clean – Leri's father had his own steam bath which Aravir was more than happy to use. The flower of the Misty Mountains enjoyed all sorts of baths too – making him wonder for a moment about the filthiness of orcs. He could not deny that Rangers in the field were filthy too. He chuckled at the thought of Mr Travel Light Rosben – a Ranger for whom salt, comb or soap were all superfluous deadweight, never to be taken on patrols. In the field that one got ripe quickly – he recalled - yet back in the Angle he was as clean as anybody, if not cleaner.

()()()()()()()()()()()()

December 2981/February 2982– eastern foothills of the Emyn Uial, Dwarrow settlement

They found the settlement with the first snows. They were close to being greeted with an axe in the gut, nerves being what could be expected after the slavers' raid of the spring. They were pleased to see the girls in much better form, especially being welcomed by the sight of Gudrun being up and about. The winter passed uneventfully. The dwarrows were reasonably non-hostile towards the orcess and worshipful of him. To pay for his keep Aravir hunted and set traps, often accompanied by Ashtuzual. He also gave weapons training to those interested and with free time. Although quite proficient for civilians, he noticed areas where some instructions from a professional would make them improve. They were not so happy to see Ashtuzual training with them but accepted the argument that sparing with them made her better prepared to fight orcs. With height and arms' reach being similar, they were stronger, so if she survived _them_ , she'd be ready to go toe to toe with minions of Darkness.

Nevertheless, he was bored. In the Angle he'd have other things to do – he would listen to Council meetings, sitting out his ban on speaking ( _only_ _thirty years to go ..._ ), he'd go over the registers of his estates with the steward, he socialise a bit, he'd flirt a bit, maybe have a winter-long romance with one of the widows ... this was much to much of a working holiday for him. The dwarrows hinted that he could lend a hand at the forge, too, so the bellows were no longer an abstract term for him.

What he missed most was involvement in planning next year's operations. He had asked Tarkil to put the two of them up as a pair for the Greyflood Valley to check out the rumours that suspected half orcs were seen there. To get a half orc you need an orc as a starting point, so maybe they'd take her on, he mused. Three previous owners, the last pair very careful ... what a life she'd had to date ... he shook his head over this thought.

Before they broke up Tarkil came up with an idea of giving Ashtuzual a rose shaped clasp for her cloak. Plus the cloak to begin with, of course. At some distance it would look misleadingly like a Ranger's star, thus delaying the critical first arrow in her direction. Robur son of Borubar, the father of one of the women they've saved, promised to forge such a fastener for her. The two of them had also discussed teaching the orcess Sindarin. Her Westron was good enough already, especially with the practice over the winter with the Dwarrows, so it'd be nice if the three of them were able to converse in the Rangers' mother tongue. This was also to be an extra layer of defence of the girl - they hoped that any Rangers and Elves would be suitably impressed with her knowledge of the eleven tongue and not kill her once she managed to get a word in. He vaguely remembered some elf in Rivendell telling him that orcs were incapable of speaking elvish of any kind. Was that Old Sunshine? So he took the plunge and lessons in Sindarin began. True that this sweet little flower showed more interest in learning how to say you "putrid ooze dripping warg buggered git" than the song of Beren and Luthien, but she was quite quick and Sindarin was Sindarin ...

He had hoped to have the girl dressed in something made to size and not looted rags. Legwear was not a problem, with Ljufa, Faram's wife, being a shoemaker by trade. She was more than happy to cobble together two pairs of boots, so the orcess had a sturdy – VERY STURDY – pair and spare. Aravir and Ashtuzual joked about which might be a larger maintenance problem – cracked leather or rust? With all the metal in them the orcess' boots qualified as weapons, they decided. Aravir now was another proud owner of dwarrow made shin-smashers.

Obtaining clothing threw up an unexpected hitch. The winter's first courier to Belegost, the main Dwarrow settlement in the Emyn Luin, took their order to a renowned tailoress. The reply complicated the issue of bespoke clothing for the orcess:

_The measurements supplied with the order must be wrong, as it is impossible for a dwarrowdam to have such dimensions. Yet if these measurements are correct, then may the lice from a hundred elven mullets infest the beard of the scum who starved her so. I will take no custom from one like him._

_Sigurd Kirikissdottir_

It was too late to order outside the settlement again so they had to go with whatever typcical dwarrow-wear was on hand. Before the choice of skirt versus trousers could become a cause of conflict between the Ranger and the orcess, the issue was decided by arbitrage ( _putting it mildly - it was armed intervention!_ ). Aravir was stared down by almost a dozen dwarrowdams – in such numbers they simply overpowered, trampled, chewed and spit out his steely pale blue glare – so Ashtuzual was fitted out in modified dwarrow clothing in line with dwarrow sensibilities.

\- _A_ _dam on the road must look like a male, or bad things happen_ – Ye Olde Dwarfishes Wisdom was hammered into his head.

He did save Ashtuzual from a fake beard, though.


	12. Tourism, a measure of acceptance

December 2981/February 2982 – eastern foothills of the Emyn Uial, Dwarrow settlement

Setting out after wintering made Ashtuzual ponder on the year that had passed since she had set out with Orcobal's raiders a year before. Had her _tark_ masters been orcs, they'd be famous warriors and lads would be back stabbing one another to join them once they made a call to form a warband. And inside the warband – the way they treated her – she would have status equal to that of a common warrior. At least. She'd defer to any _pizbur_ they'd appoint, of course, but not by much. With the huntress and warrior training she was getting she could try for a scouting role in a year or two, pushing her status even higher. But that would mean giving up the Masters' back protecting job - to somebody else. Naaa, better stick to guarding the Masters' backs – she didn't know anybody more trustworthy than herself.

The winter had been a fascinating affair. Disappointedly the _shakutarbik_ den had been pretty much like the _shara-hai_ one. She had hoped it would be like an orc one, underground. But this was temporary, like a hunting camp, to be abandoned after a few years. And a small den, too. Five family groups, if she counted correctly. Secretive folk, those dwarves, doing everything they could behind closed doors. She'd never seen them mating, for instance. But they had secrecy in their very construction, she mused – the purpose of the fur on their faces was to hide their facial expressions from others, she was sure.

They were fiercely loyal to one another, far beyond then just mate to mate or sibling to sibling ties. They were to make an attempt at freeing those four boys again. She helped them by drawing, from memory, the shapes of the mountains where Orcobal usually did his business. The _shakutarbik_ wanted to take her along but Master Aravir said no. He said that his duty did no allow him to go with them before consulting the tark warboss, which would take too much time. And that he could not let her go as his duty was to protect her. So he'd given them money – as that always helped – and gave them his personal token, allowing them to call upon his secret name if they met other Rangers.

At that the dwarves solemnly nodded and said that they knew more about duty than anybody else. To prove it they sang the _99 Years of Duty_ song, which took four hours. It was about a lad who was a bodyguard of the supreme warboss His Opulence ( _he was LOADED_ ), and a lass who was a bauble making smith (apparently a prestige giving dwarrow profession). The two fancied a tumble and by the words of the song needed one too – they were going bonkers without it. But it was always him on guard duty, or her on duty keeping the forge going. So they never get to boink over those ninety nine years. And when they were finally to mate the dragon came and burned them all. This sob story made her cry herself to sleep that night. Ninety nine years without a tumble ...

March 2982 - Bree

After some interrogation the scatterbrain helping his father run the inn remembered that three Rangers – including a child – were in the big corner room. He knocked softly and entered.

\- Strider.

\- Shorty, Honey ...

The cloak clad figure giggled and repeated the names. And started to laugh.

Tarkil looked at the Chieftain sheepishly.

\- Sometimes she's like a little girl. In human terms she's fifteen or sixteen. She's been giggling from the moment she finally noticed our Ranger names.

Strider gestured for the orcess to draw back her hood. Once she did he looked at her searchingly. She had no more malevolence in her than he could see in his uncle Aravir, for instance. Her eyes were a mix of current merriment, curiosity and mischief. For all the "bewitched by orcish sorcery" talk around the council he could not discern any special evil about her. She was tainted, but it was the sort of taint he'd often feel among the Race of Men, weak, not the striking dose he felt from really evil creatures – be them men, wargs, orcs or trolls. He noted the worry over the results of his scrutiny in Tarkil – the gentle Ranger was evidently protective of the little orc. His uncle – on the other hand – was much more relaxed about the whole thing.

But what had his ... excentric unle got hmself into? Was the orcess a pet? A mascot? Was the obstinate ox - an opinion the chieftain had formed of his uncle from their corespondence - aware that he was conemning her to a life of misery among the race of Man, never to be accepted? 

They ate their noon meal together. Aravir studied his long unseen nephew, Aragorn studied Aravir and Ashtuzual, Ashtuzual studied everybody and Tarkil nobody in particular, happy to see them all.

March 2982 - Bree

The _shara-hai_ and _small-folk_ settlements were a new wonder for the denizen of Darkness. The modified elf noticed that some of the _shara_ lived in STONE houses and had an extra layer above the ground level. The little folk in turn, when they could, built small one-family dens into the hillsides, with round doors and windows. Like little caves. How quaint, she thought! The small folk were even shorter than she was, although stouter. The _small folks_ women – and some of the _sharlob_ too - had enormous breasts which they tried to squeeze under their leather jerkins. Some had cut the leather too low and the breasts popped up – good for them that they had shirts to catch them. But why did they skimp on the leather? And they had enormous feet and walked barefoot and they had ... ewww ... hair on the tops of their feet. The place Ashtuzual slept and ate in a separate room with the Masters there was a second layer. And they didn't use ladders but special walk ups – the masters called the _stairs_ – to reach the second layer.

The Supreme Warboss of the _tarks_ – or Dunedain, like they preferred to be called – was Aragorn vel Strider. It was tough to remember the new names for the Masters – Honey and Shorty. Strider was taller than either of the Masters, just the way it should be. It was almost always the largest orc leading the warband. And no scars on him – he was that good, no challenger leaving a mark on him. Not as broad as Aravir vel Shorty – would the young Master challenge him? Sometims it was not the largest orc, but the strongest or most vicious or tricksiest. Probably not – the Warboss was his brother's whelp which among the _tarks_ was almost like an own whelp. Confusing.

Tarkil and the cloaked mite did some necessary shopping while the two Dunedain of noblest lineage in Middle Age conferred. Besides discussing general matters the minor issue of the orc was decided. The betrothed of Arwen ruled that Tarkil and Arvair – and only they – were responsible for Ashtuzual. And that they were stuck with her – letting her go back to some orc tribe was out of the question. Letting her go to some strange group of men and half orcs – again Aragorn was opposed. Such a group was practically guarantied to be bandits. So Tarkil and Aravir were stuck with a valet or squire of sorts – some thirty to forty years, considering the life span of the common orc. Strider agreed to keep her existence in mind when assigning patrols. Hopefully in a few years' time others would get used to her. For this year they were attached to the Sarn Ford Station, to cover the south eastern approaches to the Shire with an eye on the southern approach to Bree as well.

July 2982 – southern Barrow Downs

The bandit was trussed up and Aravir began to interrogate him. Behind his back Ashtuzual was dressing game. The bandit was the strong, silent type and refused to answer any questions. He just glared at the Ranger and didn't say a thing. But the blue eyed defender of the North noticed that when the snitch-snitch of the knife through meat or skin behind his back stopped, the bandit's eyes glanced apprehensively in Ashtuzual's direction. He almost chocked himself stifling his laughter. She was doing it again, Tarkil's and his efforts to make her drop that nasty habit apparently going to naught as soon as their backs were turned. In this case – literarily ... He switched to Sindarin, certain that Mister Tough and Tight-lipped would not know it:

\- Are you doing what you shouldn't be doing again?

\- ... –

\- You don't need to answer; I know you _are_ doing it again. But today you are forgiven. Just when you're doing it smile at our guest, will you?

The buldging eyes of the bandit immediately told him that the girl had smiled at the prisoner while licking the knife dripping with deer's blood.


	13. The making of a nest

Summer and Autumn of 2982, along the Baranduine

Aravir was looking for something. He vaguely remembered some piece of information pertaining to Hobbits and their customs related at a fireside two or three decades ago, when he had just earned his Star. For this reason he left the swarthy flower with Tarkil and scouted north along the river on his own. Let "Honey" deal with keeping pony back and orc ass together. The river had made its ninety degree turn and no longer flowed south west, but south east. To his right he had the Tyrn Gorthda, the Barrow Downs where the last of Cordolan's defenders held out for two hundred years after the fall of their kingdom. He murmured a short prayer to their memory. To the left – the river and the low country beyond it, the Southfarthing of the Halflings. There should be no problems coming from that side.

The problems could be orc or mannish nogoodniks seeking temporary shelter in the Barrow Downs – like the band they had caught and killed six sennights previously. He smiled at the memory of the bandit eagerly spewing everything he knew once Ashtuzual was allowed to indulge in her obnoxious habit of licking blood off utensils.

The well known danger of the Downs – the wights – was not a threat as long as one did not go there. Which he had no intention off.

He pressed on, the usually mist obscured Downs on his right being replaced by the Old Forest. If stories were true he should not be too worried about orcs coming out from there – the Forest was supposed to hate those creatures and kill the. Better not let Ashtuzual go there, a thought passed his mind. Ill intentioned Men, in turn, were either too scared to venture there, or had no business to do so. Trader caravans ran to the north of the Forest and the Downs, or to the east. Moving south through the Old Forrest made no sense at all, as it lead into nowhere in particular. Buckland was protected by a hedge, and further south the Brandywine had an extensive swamp abutting its western bank.

This was a place ideal for his purpose. He was looking for a place to winter. If by his cousin's decision he was to look towards twenty or thirty years of winter quarters outside the Angle, he needed a place not dependent on the goodwill of others. And this odd enclave, surrounded by swamps, evil forests, wight infested hills and parochial Halflings should be a relatively safe place. Even if it didn't have what that story heard so long ago had mentioned, he could still build a cabin ...

The Ranger beamed happily looking up from the bank of the river. Half a dozen or so round openings in the escarpment looming over the river. The – what was that word again – smalls? snails? – of the Exiles. Made by hobbits exiled for their crimes from the Shire but loath to go into the Lone Lands. He left his horse and went to investigate the dwellings.

Aravir had a blade at his throat. The something which had kept up on him did so with incredible stealth.

\- "Turn around", he heard a growl. – "hands away from the belt."

The Ranger sized up the hobbit. A male. He didn't look the violent type. A violent Halfling would be an oxymoron, but one could always chance upon the one-in-a-million-hobbits serial killer. Aravir's contact with Breeland hobbits was not particularly intensive but he considered himself as being capable of judging their character by their looks. Size did not matter - he had orcs more or less this hobbit's size trying to gnaw his head off. As to the knife at his throat - in such circumstances carrying a knife around did not point towards "violence oriented" but "prudent". He himself was a walking armoury. Aravir noted the tattooed hands informing of the Shireling's status – this was part of his lessons on laws and customs of the peoples of Eriador.

\- "What do you want here", the hobbit pressed him.

Aravir decided for the blunt approach. He gambled with hobbits not being renowned as cutthroats.

\- "If you are refurbishing one of those run down smials that means we are going to be neighbours. I'm planning to winter here with my ... companion. Maybe we could live amicably side by side?"

The Halfling did not look happy. Rather he looked aghast. No wonder. The ranger could well understand that such a perspective was much harder on the hobbit than on him. Had a troll offered him good neighbourly status he'd be stunned and unhappy about it too.

There were two of them, apparently a couple. The female looked pregnant. The pair was very similar looking but then again his experience with hobbits was not sufficient to push him much beyond the "they all look the same" stage.

The Hobbits' names were Hartmut and Gersvinda. Aravir offered to help them get their smial – he was informed of the correct term - ready. He had a week before he needed to go back to report. Their four strong hands under Hartmut's direction made short shrift of the task. The hobbit turned out to be much more knowledgeable about carpentry and other domestic jobs than the ranger. No wonder, Aravir thought, he knew 101 ways in which to kill an orc but joining two planks was a challenge! The shiereling put the tools he had brought to good use. A good thing he had picked up some woodworking tools in Bree in the spring, even before he had remembered the Smails of the Exiles. He had vague plans for a cabin somewhere.

Ashtuzual was ecstatic when she met Gersvinda. To her horror she poked her in the baby bump and with a toothy smile announced:

\- "Wonderful that you are with whelp! I always wanted to see a whelping! I will come and help!"

The hobbitess stuttered something which could be conjectured to express lack of enthusiasm towards the idea.

The orcess made a long face of a kicked puppy.

\- "Are Halflings different? Lads help with whelping? Among orcs, dwarrows and mannling's it is always the same - the lads are chased away and it is something the lasses do together. Or will other Halfling lasses come to be with you?"

At this Gersvinda teared up and began to sob. And broke down completely a moment later. She didn't protest when Ashtuzual timidly crept up and embraced her. Through raking sobs she said that no, no other hobbit women will come, that there will no customary congregation of a family's womenfolk – a dozen or more, but only she and Hartmut. That she was afraid and unhappy and that it shouldn't be like this. That she will be birthing her child like a homeless dog in a ditch. The wailing quickly produced an alarmed Hartmut but seeing that Ashtuzual was not coiling Gersvinda's intestines around her fingers he calmed down a bit. He gently pried the hobbitess from the orcess grasp and took over comforting her.

The rest of the season passed uneventfully, with their patrolling often involving either Aravir or Ashtuzual visiting the smial-under-refit to give a hand. In return they provided the Hobbits with game. By this time the orcess had become a reasonably competent rider of her pony "Azog". Giving the older Ranger a good turn for his covering of their absence on station Tarkil was sent to Bree to buy some supplies – getting a bath and a night in bed as a side-benefit. Reciprocating for Aravir's assistance Hartmut helped with their smial. It was perfectly sized for the debased elf, but being inside gave the scion of Numenor a permanent hunch. The crafty Halfling suggested a solution of sorts:

\- "The floor is damaged and I will have to relay it. Considering how improperly shaped you are, I would deepen the floor in the middle of the corridor, the kitchen and the bedroom – the places where you will be spending the most time. The floor along the sides will remain as it is. Ash" – the hobbits refused to use their full names, with the ranger becoming Ara – "will have to remember about not falling into the central groove. The pantry will stay as it is."

Aravir stole a boat at the Mithe, leaving a pouch with several times its worth in silver in return. He hoped the Hobbit will not hate him for this. After teaching Hartmut and Ashtuzual to swim – or not to sink immediately - he left them to hunt for birds gathering for their flight south in the Overbourn Marshes, with instructions to keep to the south side of the wetlands. He did not have to add – _without being seen_. The captured fowl was then smoked by the waddling Gersvinda for the winter.

In mid November Shorty and Ashtuzual waved off Honey, sending him and the horses (and Azog) to Inzilbeth and the girls a fortnight sooner. Aravir took the last weeks of the season onto himself, leaving Ashtuzual on baby watch. And gleefully leafing through Basics of Midwifery Illustrated.

()()()()()()()()

AN:

Smials of the Exiles and Hobbit customs and ordinance from headcanon of dreamflower02

To see where they holed up go to the Encyclopaedia of Arda website and write in Mithe in the search window.


	14. Winter quarters 2982-83

Summer of 2982 to Spring 2983, Sarn Ford Station and the Smials of the Exiles

The masters kept up her training and her Sindarin lessons. The language of the _golug-hai_ came in handy when they captured the _shara_ raider _._ Master Aravir was able to give her instructions the mannling could no understand. And the silly _shara_ was afraid of her, and not of master Aravir's blue eyes. Now that's what's scary! Not her.

At the big camp they often ran into other Rangers. At first almost all grabbed their weapons upon seeing her, afterwards getting used to her presence around Masters Honey and Shorty. Most got used to her, a few began to acknowledg her presence with a nod, and one or two even spoke to her. The majority gave her a "stay away" glare, however. She knew better than to go where she wasn't wanted, living with orcs _beat_ such knowledge into one. The Rangers who talked with her were amused by her titling the Masters Master. They were probably jealous that the Masters had her and they didn't.

She learned to ride the four legged creature the mannlings and _golug-hai_ used for transport and sometimes for combat. She was given a small one. The masters said she could give it – it actually was a bitch – a name. They said it could be named anything – after a flower, animal, or famous person. So she named her pony Azog. The pony didn't mind the name while the Masters thought it funny. But Azog _was_ famous – every orc in the Misty Mountains had heard of him! Some of the Rangers had male horses which wanted to do her harm. She still was not sure if they ate _only_ greens – the way some looked at her she was quite sure they longed for _orcflesh._

The little folk Master Shorty found for them to winter with were wonderful. They – Master Shorty and she - were going to live in a _Hobbit_ style den – with those cute round doors and windows she'd seen in Breeland. The clever little folk made deeper walkways for Master, to keep him from hitting his head on things. Very clever builder hobbit. The woman – Gersvinda – was with whelp! She was scared, however, when the orcess first mentioned helping her to whelp – and then she cried a lot without any apparent reason. She later agreed to her assistance and said that she is grateful. Seems that she and Hartmut did something which the other Hobbits think to be _very bad_ and now they cannot live among other hobbits. They have tattoos on their hands saying they did ... whatever the hobbits considered to be _bad things_. So maybe Master Shorty was right about having tattoos being a bad thing after all. He also gave her a _look_ and said that it is _very_ bad manners to ask what they were cast out for. But Hobbits were not known for killing one another, and were a strange folk to begin with, so she shouldn't worry that they'd do something nasty to her. Not that she'd allow it, she'd fought a _shara_ bandit and killed him.

Gersvinda explained that she cried that day when Ashtuzual mentioned help with whelping as among hobbits it is a very joyous affair, with all the women in the family being present - from sensible teenagers up to the still mobile oldies. And here she won't have any of that. So she now is happy that the orcess will be there – a girl is a girl, after all. She only asked the orcess to trim her claws. Ashtuzual thought this silly, after all orcesses have been whelping with fully grown claws since the times of Angbad ... but then again Gersvinda was _not_ an orcess ...

She did not know that Master Shorty was so strong – she now saw him carry logs or stones for the dens, his muscles bulging. Funny how _shakaturbik_ , hobbit, _shara-hai_ and _tark-hai_ all had thin fur on their bodies, not like orcs. And then he tought her and the male hobbit to swim. He also bravely stole a boat for her and Hartmut to hunt – they took to quietly rowing across the river at dawn and shot – sometimes even simply netting – the incredible numbers of birds that were there. The birds were to leave before winter and come back in the spring – or so the Man and the Hobbit said. Ashtuzual had never seen such things while she was small in the den, she didn't see the sky much then.

Master Honey brought her a book about whelping! It had very interesting pictures showing everything! And sprogs and all too! Ashtuzual begged Aravir to teach her to read, so that she would know what does it say next to the illustrations. So the winter routin set in – some arms training, some hunting and trapping – although they did not venture deep in to the forest, both feeling its animosity - Sindarin and writing lessons.

Hartmut found some inlets along the bank where the current was slow and the ice was thick enough to bear them. He cut out holes in the ice to catch fish. Ashtuzual found this to be a particularly boring, time wasting activity. Hartmut and Aravir, however, sat on wood stumps next to the holes for hours and were happy. Arm in arm with Gerasvinda and cooing at the rosy cheeks and toothless smile of Pansy waving her clutched translucent fingers about they agreed that regardless if mannling, hobbit or orc – males are all the same. They'll do anything not to stay at home and do some honest work. Even freezing was better.

For Ashtuzual the top new addition to wintering activities was baby sitting. First she assisted with the hobittess' labour, alongside Hartmut. The orcess grudgingly admitted that he might have some role too. Aravir was very glad to be pushed out the door, however. The whelping was everything the orcess imagined it to be and much more. For the first days it was difficult to keep Pansy out of Ashtuzual's arms and she was good naturedly shooed out of the hobbits' smial. She eagerly helped with the tiny fauntling whenever she could.

Once the chores of the day were done the blue eyed Ranger had a special treat for the orcess. They sat side by side on the bench next to their roughly hewn table. And by candle light the Dunadan read out loud from Basics of Midwifery Illustrated. This was to save Ashtuzual from struggling to read the difficult words and to immediately explain the meaning of words she did not know - if Aravir knew them, that is .

– " ... _at maximum dilation, approximately four inches_ ... "

\- "How much is that, show me!"

\- "More or less like this ..."

\- "Gerasvinda had less, maybe like this ..."

\- "You have seen women of the race of men in Bree, the book was written about them. Hobbits are smaller. Much smaller."

He resumed reading:

\- " ... _four inches, the head_ ..."

\- "Can _tark_ and _hobbit_ boink?"

\- "I have not heard about such events. I have heard tales about it, but from people I'm fairly sure have never seen a hobbit, so I don't believe them."

Ashtuzual snuggled into the warm bulk of the Ranger - _he wasn't like those shara in the slaver band and she did not fear him; well, she feared him when he glared at her but she did not fear him **that** way_ \- and tapped her finger on the book, telling him to continue reading about dillation. 

\- "Next to this picture, what does it say?"


	15. Spring flooding and baby bumps

2983, spring to autumn, Sarn Ford Station and Breeland

The springtime view at sunset from the smial was astonishing – snowmelt and rains made the Brandywine overflow, making the Overborne Marshes expand west- and southwards almost as far as the eyes could see and – with higher water levels covering most of the vegetation – making the wetland look like a lake. Such a watery vista extended from the edge of the Old Forest and the village of Deephallow (the homesick hobbits had taught Ash and Ara the names of all visible land features) – the village currently an island - on the right, up the Shirebourn, the view immediately in front being enclosed by the forested hills of the Woody End, and on the left the water merged with the horizon of the low lying lands of the Southfarthing.

With spring came news and orders. Aravir remained on Sarn Ford Station. Tarkil, however, owing to his wife's condition, was assigned to courier duty. This allowed him to spend more time with Inzilbeth, due in August. A courier's duty was to stay at readiness in the Angle to carry missives to the five stations outside it. And in case of need the couriers were impressed into the Grey Company, the Angle's main combat force, as any Rangers on hand would be as well.

Aravir was on single patrol for most of the year, occasionally dropping by to check up on the smials. The cause of his solitary patrols was "natural" - the two hobbits could not keep their hands off one another. When asked by Ashtuzual how could she be with whelp again, Gerasvinda said with a dreamy, glazed look in her eyes:

"We love one another almost too much ..."

The other Rangers knew of the hideout and were asked to keep an eye on suspect tracks leading in that direction. Every fortnight or so Ashtuzual sought Aravir out in the wild with provisions prepared by Gerasvinda ( _to keep him from wasting away in the wild_ ). She now rode Azog (whom she had expected to grow during the winter, as nobody had bothered to explain the difference between horses and ponies to her) with confidence. He caught himself looking forward to her visits. He liked having the orcess along. Sometimes Aravir pondered on how she had changed – from a scared semi-feral child two years ago to a – to a young adult, he supposed – at present.

Eru bless the hobbits for their influence on her, he thought. Either it was too soon for her, or she was too young then, or the dwarrows' energetic manner of doing things simply cowered her, but the winter in the settlement to the north of the Lake Evendim had a much lesser "civilising" impact on the orcess than he had hoped for. He himself knew shit about children, girls in particular. That was a custom made job for Honey - but there was no reason why he should neglect his henhouse for the orcess. He, a bachelor, was expendable, however - he thought wryly. Some might even say - _the boy will get experience, hurr hurr_ \- he chuckled to himself. The hobbits, however, who on a good day could barely intimidate a rabbit, were a marvellous influence on her. He chuckled to himself again – they were even picking up where his tutors had given up almost forty years previously, like hounding him for not taking off muddy boots in the hall. They had even roped Ashtuzual into their efforts– he smiled at the memory of being chased out of the kitchen by the red eyed mite.

2983, April, Breeland, Bree

Aravir was thirsty. He knew he should be heading back south as soon as his shopping was done but it was a very sunny and hot April day. He succumbed to temptation and entered the Prancing Pony. To force himself to keep the visit short he asked for his horse not to be unsaddled. One saddlebag held Advanced Midwifery Illustrated as Gersvinda's mid-way baby bump rivalled Inzilbeth's efforts in this department. He sighed, he hadn't seen Inzi nor her girls for over two years. Maybe this winter, if the hobbits kept their hands on the blanket ... He shook melancholy off himself and focused on the pint of ale, listening to Breelanders patter nonsense among themselves. The topic of the day was the passage of a group of Elves westwards and this phenomena's impact on the local ecology. Before he finished his drink the list included the Fey Folks' "withering gaze" having withered Stockinger's strawberries (although the frost from two morning's back was also a suspect), their "baleful eye" had brought about the miscarriage of Goodwife Cottonburrs' cow, and "miasma of pestilence" had made milk turn at three farms along their route. Aravir was still giggling when passing the gate on his way south.

2983, July/August, south of Barrow Downs, middle of nowhere

In July Tarkil brought letters to Sarn Ford and later sought out Aravir. He was in no hurry, the missives being standard "nothing to report" reports, so he lingered waiting for Ashtuzual to show up. He evidently missed her. When she found their camp he couldn't get enough of her company. The orcess had got over her disappointment that she would not be able to assist Inzilbeth due to the secrecy of the Rangers' "den", especially that she had a ready-to-pop Gerasvinda on hand. She was anxious to get back, waiting for Tarkil to leave and thus to strike out together, but Honey dawdled, finding all sorts of excuses to put off his return. One day it was the horse walking funny, the other day it looked like it could rain later ...

Watching Ashtuzual fidgeting, and thinking about Inzilbeth, who had her husband at her side when in labour one time out of three, made Aravir explode.

"Tarkil, what the fuck are you still doing here? Don't make me pull the father-in-law card on you, 'cause I finally will. That's MY daughter who'll be bleeding and shitting herself to bring your latest child into the world - _my grandchild_ \- and you are to be there holding her hand and letting her call you every filthy name she can think of. Or cringing outside the door hearing her scream in pain! Do you understand? Scoot!"

Ashtuzual actually thought she heard Master Aravir growl and those horrible blue eyes of his looked worse than ever. She was astonished ... Tarkil's _shauk_ was Aravir's whelp? With whom?

Tarkil tried to defend himself against the glare and verbal onslaught with some mumbled excuses about Aravir looking at Ashtuzual – or was it Ashtuzual looking at Aravir – neither the Ranger nor the orc cared to listen and sent off the expectant and inexplicably reluctant father on his way to the Angle.

"Aravir" – two years of pleas and the hobbits' variety of Westron, with most honorifics dropped, and growing awareness that she was not a _snaga_ had finally cured her of addressing the two Rangers as "Master".

"Aravir, is Tarkil's _shauk_ your daughter? You often told me you are not married so I should ask Hartmut or Tarkil about certain things ... like how a man boinks a female with a big baby bump - and you never said a word about having whelps."

The ranger smiled at her and patted the ground at his side. Once she was snuggled against him and wrapped under arm he said that it is a quite long story. His memory went almost twenty years back ...

()()()()()()()()

Aravir had befriended Inzilbeth the moment she arrived at the Angle on a hard ridden, wounded horse and with Tarkil's spare shirt on her back. He fell in love - so to speak – with her determination. Of how she overcame her fear to accomplish what she wanted. He helped her find her legs in the Angle, assisted with her Sindarin, correcting her errors without jeer nor malice. He was unashamedly proud of himself for resolving Inzilbeth's serious matrimony related problem which had come up just after Tarkil proposed. Her problem was the lack of relatives, of someone to represent her in legal capacity, as she was not of age. The lack of relatives to chaperone her about was a minor mater. She could not be adopted by Tarkil's parents –who'd be happy to do so - as that would make her his sister, making the whole exercise moot. He walked into the problem being discussed at a friendly get together.

Aravir simply said:

"I see three adult men here", as besides Aithon and Tarkil their neighbour – Beren – was also present.

"I call upon you as witnesses".

He could see that she was beginning to worry about what was happening, as she did not know nor understand where it was heading. Inzilbeth was not alone – he saw similar expressions of surprise or bewilderment in the eyes of others too.

Aravir cleared his throat and began in solemn voice and stone face:

"Inzilbeth, orphan, of no known guardians, not of age, do you accept me, Aravir son of Arador, as your guardian? From which you would be given care and protection like from father to daughter, and to which you shall give your devotion and obedience as from daughter to father? Should you say yes before these witnesses – Beren son of Aegon, Aithon son of Megilagor and Tarkil son of Aithon, we shall become as parent and child. What says you?"

Startled and not sure if she was fully understanding the situation she looked towards those she knew had her welfare at heart – she looked like a startled sparrow - Tarkil looked as confused as she did, while the more worldly Aithon was smiling broadly and giving her a nod. She meekly said:

"Yes."

Aravir walked up to her, embraced and kissed three times on the cheeks and then on the forehead. Still holding her he glared at her intended, making Tarkil squirm.

"If you harm her it's to Mordor with you!" – and his stern demeanour cracked and he bellowed in laughter.

\- "Shoo, outside, the two of you, to the garden, take a walk, hold hands, whatever, I'll be looking through the window" – and began to laugh again.

Later, bored like an ice-hole fishing goblin Aravir trailed his best friend Tarkil and newly acquired daughter Inzilbeth. He contemplated the sky, the flying birds, the clouds, the grass swaying on the wind. He was ecstatic to find a freshly painted barn along their route, which he thoroughly examined. The young ranger did everything to walk in the same direction yet not look at the courting pair. Not that they would had noticed him. Him or a troll or two, they'd not notice anything. They were so disgustingly smitten that Aravir felt like intruding at their privacy, even at fifty paces. He neared a group of close to a dozen people, of mixed ages and sex, standing along the path the betrothed pair had taken. As he was not glaring daggers at the male component of the couple in front of him – which was the customary stance of a girl's older brother - he was dismissed as a simple passerby. He was drawn to events around him by overhearing:

"His father married that half Breelander girl, and like father like son, the young one picked up some bint in the south. Shocking! Absolutely no regard for the blood of Numenor."

"And so many pretty, unmarried girls around. Take Finduilas, for starters. She's ..."

"Or Invriniel, barely thirty and a widow for two years now. And without a bairn to remember Hurin by."

"Scandalous"

Watching freshly painted barns gave him a headache and shortened his temper. He started to give the group the eye. Slowly, one by one he attracted their attention.

"That "bint" is my daughter. That makes her a descendant of Earendil and Elwing. Have a nice day!" – He snarled and trudged on, after calming down trying to distract himself by counting the balls of mistletoe on the nearest linden tree. But soon he could not get his mind of the germ of truth in the mutterings of the indignant bunch he had passed – there _were_ many unmarried girls in the Angle.

()()()()()()

\- "And this is how Inzi is my daughter, although I've never had a wife."

The orcess nodded – the concept was not alien to her, there being orc couples bringing up orphaned sprogs as their own. But she could not understand why should he claim a lass of breeding age as his own. She'll ask him to explain that tomorrow. Feeling safe in his warmth she drifted asleep.

Having Ashtuzual next to him felt good. He adjusted his position as to feel more of her and to give her a better sleeping position. Wrapping her in his cloak and curling his arm around her lithe body Aravir slipped into a Ranger's watchful sleep.

AN: 

Tarkil made it home on time to be at the birth of Indis, their fourth daughter. Both mother and baby are in good form, thank you.

Chapter inspired and co-written by the indefatigable, yammering muse of TommyGinger


	16. Narrative, dialogue and Cliffy!

uly to year end 2983, early 2984

Riding towards the Angle Tarkil felt a mix of anger, shame, relief and apprehension. And growing awareness of having behaved like an idiot. He was angry at his best friend and foster daughter ( _as he thought of her_ ) as they had chased him away. He was ashamed that they chased him away to perform his duty as husband and father. He was relieved as he had been sent on his way to do his duty, that the decision he could not take had finally been made for him. And he was worried of what will be the outcome of what he saw blooming in front of his eyes. He _knew_ that he should have gone back days before, but he could _not_ bring himself to leave Ashtuzual and Aravir together. He saw the way one looked at the other, he saw how they sought physical contact. The touches in themselves were perfectly ordinary and absolutely not deserving of the term "lascivious" or "lusting", "romantic" even, but nonetheless screamed "mutual attraction" at him. He suspected that they themselves were unawares of being on a runaway wain with bolting oxen from friendship to love. But there was nothing he could do about it. And he felt stupid as not only were they adults ( _he was not sure about Ashtuzual's age, but considering what she had been through she should be treated as one_ ) but they spent one winter under a single roof together already and were to spend another. Really stupid of him of him to set up camp and watch them if they are sticking to holding hands only. Particularly stupid with having a wife about to go into labour. He hoped that Inzilbeth will forgive him his wavering someday. But still he could not stop worrying what will happen to the youngsters when others learn of their liaison? Will they be killed outright, perceived as equalling Morgoth's perversion of the elves? What about children ...

Or maybe he was just seeing things? Maybe he was worrying about things which not only had not yet come to pass, may never come to pass at all? What was certain was that Inzilbeth was due any week now – that's what he should be preoccupied about ...

()()()()()()()

Early August brought the birth of Lothar and Gunthar to Hersvinda and Hartmut. Unbeknownst to the inhabitants of the Smials of the Exiles two weeks later Inzilbeth followed suit with Indis. In the autumn Aravir cashed in a favour with the Captain in charge of the Sarn Ford station and – tearing Ashtuzual away from the twins and long fully recovered hobbitess – they rode north to visit their dwarrow acquaintances. They were greeted with open arms and discovered that they had been lucky – this was to be last or penultimate season of the settlement.

The duo then rode back to Bree and ultimately to the Smials. But this was not the end of a busy autumn for the blue eyed Ranger. He left the orcess with the hobbits and – passing through Bree to collect bespoken gifts – he went to the Angle, the secret Dunedain den ( _as he and Tarkil took to jokingly call it after the orcess_ ) which he had left in the spring of 2981. He hadn't planned for being almost three years away. He arrived with the first snows.

In a whirlwind of activity he rushed through meetings with family and friends, catching up on births, deaths, marriages – correspondence hadn't kept him fully in touch with happenings among the Dunedain.

()()()()()()()

"You fucking orc now?"

Aravir whirled around in the courtyard of the Council Tower.

"What fucked up scheme now? Breed us to Morgoth's abominations? After you've shed Trollish tears over the fate of unwed or widowed Daughters of Numenor? Tighter cunny for small dick?" - The speaker sneered at the ranger. He was taller by almost a head and looked like a handsomer copy of Tarkil.

"Switched brains with your cock but still talking? Are you fucking with me just for the jollies or have you something to say?"

"Just to tell you I'm keeping an eye on what you are doing. You and that half-wit mongrel breeding brother of mine."

"Thannor, saying shit like that is gonna get you killed someday."

"I have a sword too, Aravir ..."

()()()()()()

"I ran into your other son this morning, Aithon. He is asking me to kill him."

The older man sighed.

"One son has too little ambition, yet I find him so easy to love. To other one has too much and I find him hard to love. And it pains me how they won't speak to one another. Neither Tarkil nor Thannor ever told me what happened during their courier run to the Chieftain, in Gondor at that time. Instead of coming back together, a worn and torn Tarkil shows up first, with Inzilbeth. Elbereth bless her, she's been a joy to me and I love her too, but I feel that she is somehow related with why Thannor – returning several weeks later – has ever avoided the two of them. Almost twenty years have passed and I still do not know what had passed between them. Neither Thannor, Tarkil nor Inzilbeth have said a thing."

After a moment the retired ranger asked:

"And what did Thannor say to you this time?"

"As to why they are not on speaking terms I'm kept in the dark by them just as you are, Sir. As to what Thannor is doing to me – he is taking my ideas to save us from dying out, from killing ourselves by our own hand as personal attacks. As if my suggestions were somehow insulting to him personally. I can understand dislike or rejection of my proposals – but he really takes it personally. He adds personal hatred to politics. One day his insults will make me snap and I'll kill him - even if that gets me exiled. Sometimes I'm confused if the notions he put before the Council through like minded Elders are what he believes in, or simply are the opposite of what I suggest we do."

()()()()()()()()

Aravir kept the highlight of the visit for the end. He stayed for two days with Tarkils' family, in his confusing capacity of father in law and grandfather. He preferred the girls calling him uncle. After bestowing kisses and gifts on everybody, and after causing two cases of regurgitation and one case of diarrhoea - too much candy - he left for the Smials. On the way back he mulled over Thannor's spiteful words - _"You fucking orc now?"_

His smial was dark and cold when he opened the door. He immediately ran to that of the hobbits, noting that there was light inside. He had his heart in his throat. He approached cautiously, with a racing pulse and a hand on his sword. Everything about the door looked all right.

He listened trying to discern what was going on inside. He thought he heard sniffing.

The door flew open and Ashtuzual flung herself at him, sobbing into his chest.

"I smelt you! I knew it was you! Never, never leave me alone again ..."

AN:

Trollish tears - every universe needs its "crocodile tears" - here is my contribution to ME


	17. And they slept together

 

AN: **A short, sappy chapter where nothing happens. So:**

_"Nothing to see here, move along, wait for the action packed and sizzling with plot progression chapter XVIII. Move along, nothing to see here ... "_

2984, Smials of the Exiles

He hugged her tightly overjoyed that she was alive and well.

"The children are asleep. I'm feeding the twins a watery gruel but they cry so much ... this isn't milk and I'm not their mother." She sniffed. "Everything will be better now that you are here." She sniffed and swallowed.

"They are dead. Hartmut wanted to check the traps. Usually it was me accompanying him him but Gerasvinda insisted to go. She wanted fresh air, she said. I stayed with the children. You know, like I often did. And this wasn't the first time they went to check the traps together. But they didn't come back. The children started to cry, I soothed them, saying that their ma will be back. But they still didn't show up. I fed them and they cried themselves to sleep. I ran to our smial, grabbed my sabre and bow and leathers and I followed their trail. A ...a ... a lynx got them. And then the small animals. There was not much left of them. I left them there and went back to the wee ones. I brought what I needed from our smial and I've been here for the last three days. It was awful being alone ..."

He soothed her and calmed down himself. After feeding and cleaning up Pansy and the twins they retired for the night. Ashtuzual was very clingy and demanded they sleep together.

"I must touch. I must feel that you are here. That I'm not alone."

Aravir was upset by how inappropriate it this would. Snuggling next to a campfire was one thing and fine, but under a roof – absolutely out of the question. Even being under one roof was not proper, but could not be avoided, the two bedrooms in their smial barely sufficient for propriety. Even if he also wanted to hold her and comfort her, this was improper. The short hobbit bed gave him a venue of escape.

"You sleep on the bed and I on the floor alongside." This turned out to be an acceptable compromise.

The orcess lay on her belly, with an arm free to drop next to the bed onto the ranger's body. He placed his hand on top of her slender hand and patted reassuringly. Their fingers interwined and he fell asleep.

He opened his eyes to an armful of orc and sound of a wailing baby. Babies. During the night she dropped on him and in his sleep he had drawn her into his arms. He wrapped her in his blanket and got up to check on the little ones. She twisted and turned to cocoon herself in those parts of the bedding which he had warmed and which now smelt of him. He wondered how little she must had she slept between the accident and now - sleeping through the wailing was so unlke her.

He closed the door to the bedroom and went to re-kindle the fire to warm the water. After sniffing at the little sonorous bundles he added more water to the pot. Feigning ignorance as to further steps to take in such a situation he laid out the "used" swaddling in a conveniently located snowdrift just outside the door. It was just within range to lean over and place them there. Back in the bedroom he looked at the bump under his blanket.

"To Mordor with propriety ..." he muttered taking her blanket and laid besides her.

Thrice more he got up to the wailing. He quickly discovered the trick of leaving a full pot of cold water on a small fire when going back to sleep. It was at least warm when got back to it, roused by a new round of wails. At sunrise he was exhausted and crawled under the - by then - shared blankets and curled himself around the girl, incapable of coherent thought. Sleep!

Ashtuzual woke up and gasped. She struggled against her constraints before she realised that it was Aravir holding her. This felt good. Her bursting bladder did not. She extracted herself slowly and then shot up.

The babies! They must be up to their eyes in shit and starving! Why are they SILENT!?

She rushed to check – they were breathing and her keen orcish nose did not pick up anything needing addressing. Had he ... ?

He did. The kitchen looked like plundered by orcs and there was a distinct lack of clean swaddling. The worrying thing was that she could not find the used swaddling. On a hunch she opened the door. The sight of a snowdrift bedecked with frozen fauntling droppings sparkling in the low December sun just outside the door left her speechless.


	18. Legal stuff and Go East, young man

January 2984, Buckland

"Bilbo, I'm so happy you happen to be at Brandy Hall at this time. Something strange and unexpected (Bilbo was well aware of how his fellow hobbits were enamoured of the strange and unexpected) has happened. Yesterday the watch at the gate at Hayfell was approached by one of the Big Folk. He introduced himself as a Ranger."

Bilbo listened; a Ranger contacting bounders was very unusual. They were sometimes seen by the Hobbits but contact was practically unheard off.

Rorimac continued.

"If you could, my dear cousin, go on a little _adventure_ and after his visit here track him back to his lair. He announced that he will be back in three days and asked to see me. "

()()()()()()()

Rorimac Brandybuck, the Master of Buckland – or Master of the Hall for short, was not a youngster anymore but age had given him wisdom to go along with a quick mind. He noted that the Ranger seemed to be fairly acquainted with smial dimensions and _almost_ did not hit on anything. Oddly, it was walking in the middle of the corridor which caused him the most problems. But still he had fewer collisions with architecture than his occasional Big Folk visitors from Bree did.

"Let us sit down and talk. There will be refreshments in a moment."

Sitting on a cushion and looking down on the chair-seated hobbit the Man introduced himself.

"I'm Shorty."

The Master of Buckland snorted and tried to keep his face composed. The man was like the tallest Big Folk of Bree and built like a bear.

"You jest, Master Ranger."

The Ranger smiled.

"I'm rather short for my tribe, hence the name."

Aravir quickly got down to business.

"In the summer of 2982 ( _Rorimac mentally translated that into_ 1382) I chanced upon two hobbits, a lad and a lass, refurbishing a smial not far from Hayfell. I know a little of your customs so I was aware of them being sentenced to your most serious punishment – exile."

"Why are you sure of that."

"Tattooed hands, both of them."

Rorimac almost gasped – he had not heard about such a sentence being passed in the Shire for over a dozen years, yet – in his position as Master of Buckland, he should had been involved in the process. Such a sentence had to be passed jointly - besides seven Heads of Families - by the Thain, the Mayor and the Master of the Hall - and HE was the Master of the Hall. And HE knew nothing about it! If the Man was talking the truth this meant the bossy bitch had bypassed him in the due process! Lalia had gone too far this time. He'll have Ferumbras' and the Mayor's hide for this!

"Do you know what was the cause of banishment?"

The ranger shook his head.

"They didn't look a threat ( _as if they could to this half troll_ ), once they got over fear of me they were quite friendly, I deemed it needless to know. And doubtlessly impolite to ask." ( _what Hobbit-like propriety, even if misguided_ ).

The hobbit put the sentencing issue aside for further action and bade the bearlike man continue. But he kept raking his head over events of 1382.

"Names?"

"Just their personal names – Hartmut and Herasvinda. Never gave me a family name. The problem is that they are dead."

This fully brought Rorimac back from 1382 to 1384 SR.

"A lynx killed them in the woods. There was not much to bury. I hope burial is appropriate for Hobbits. But the problem is that they left three – fauntlings, I believe the correct hobbit term is – behind. A girl of over a year and two boys of five months - Pansy, Lothar and Gunthar."

"My companion and I can take care of them to early March latest. But preferably by mid February we would like to see them fostered out, or let in somebody's care. Our lifestyle does not allow us to take care of toddlers let alone infants."

"We would like to ask you, Master Hobbit, or plead with you with necessary – as we do not know what your customs towards children of the Exiled are - to take them in or foster out. Or for assistance in moving with them to Bree, where we'd hope to find a hobbit family ready to take them in."

()()()()()()()()

Bilbo followed the Ranger since his exit from the Hayfell gate. They crossed the frozen Withywindle. The Man set a furious pace as if chased by a pack of Balrog slaying Elven Heroes of the First Age. The experienced ex-company burglar stopped trying to keep him in his sight. Instead he moved alongside his suspected route and a hundred yards away from the Brandywine. After passing through the wedge of the Old Forest – and not having cut across the man's tracks – he kept to the top of the old river terraces. After a few hours of a good march he was rewarded with the smell of smoke coming to him from the river.

He crept towards the river, blinded by the sunset reflecting on the snow but happy that he was downwind.

()()()()()()()()()()()

January 2984, The Angle

"Now that Yule is over and you are sweetly disposed, will you tell me why do you refuse to speak with your brother and his wife, and why have you insulted my friend Aravir?" – Aithon asked his son Thannor .

"I refuse to speak of that weak willed man, and that ... woman" – he spat through clenched teeth.

"As to Aravir, he will bring about our ruin like Ar-Pharazôn. That pervert – you heard about him dragging an orc around to fuck when he feels like? - has got it all wrong. We are not over stretched. And Elbereth forbid we need any "new blood" or whatever nice terms he uses. THAT is the problem – we are debased, not overstretched. We are not good enough for the job because of the blood of inferior people we now have. It is because of men like you, who couldn't keep in their pants for a nice pair of half-Breelander tits ... "

"How dare you speak like that of your mother! And such filth about Aravir!"

"I speak the truth! When Aranarth created the Rangers they kept Eriador as secure as it could be in the circumstances as they were of pure Numenorean blood! They were not mongrelised bastards of Numenor like we are! Where previously fifty Dunedain were enough, we now have to send eighty semi-Dunedain. And if that idiot Aravir sways the Council his way – over my dead body – then we'll have to send a hundred lesser men to do the job of those fifty. Our forefathers were up to it, we aren't! We should be calling ourselves HALFINGS!" – Thannor was at full voice.

"Your choice of mother for me weakened us, the Dunedain. And it ruined my lineage – hadn't it not been for the Breelander blood you let into our lineage, two Council Elder's daughters would not have turned down my suit."

"If you wooed them by saying 'nice tits, a good political match for me, marry me' – then I'm surprised you were only shown the door and did not have the hounds set out on you! How could I have raised such a crass cad! And I see that you are bonkers!"

"Call me what you may, licentious old man. And be careful not to get a brain storm fucking some half or quarter blood whore. And take heed - I need only to bring two more Elders to my side to vote through the limiting of officer positions to True Bloods and to ban marriages with inferior folk. And then ...

"I've heard enough" – Aithon roared. "You are totally off your rocker you are! You are a waste of time!" the older Ranger stormed away from the table.

()()()()()()()()()()()

Early February 2984, Buckland, Breeland

Rorimac had tracked down the case from mid 1382. On command of his mother, Lalia, the young Thain Ferumbras Took invoked the Clause of Urgency - as he, the Master of the Hall, was in Bree on business at that time – and replaced him with another six Heads of Family. Naturally nobody bothered to inform him of the fact afterwards. Due to the scandalous and disturbing nature of the crime – as well as confessions of the culprits and undeniable and growing evidence – the matter was dealt with quickly and discretely. The siblings Harmtut and Herasvinda Potthrower of Westfarthing were found guilty of incest and sentenced to Shunning and Banishment from the Shire Forevermore. The hush-hush nature of proceedings managed to keep the story from passing through the Eastfarthing into Buckland – an incredible feat in the gossip-rent Shire.

The Ranger and his short, disfigured wife – Fey Touched, he said, hence always in a head covering cloak - took up his offer to help them move to Staddle. Even if befriending Exiles – regardless of their crimes - went against all Hobbit sentiments, it was nonetheless nice. For all the disgusting perversion of their crime, they were prey for the world around them and those Big Folk strangers had protected them. The pudginess of the fauntlings they passed over in tears (shed by the woman, unshed by the Man) was an endearing and undeniable sign of Good Character. In his mind a good turn merited another and he used his contacts to help set them up in Breeland. He was surprised at their choice of Staddle as preferred location but they explained that they "liked being around hobbits". That was a first for Big Folk as far as the Master of Buckland was concerned, and he liked them even more for it.


	19. Those Evil! Elves ...

Late Februray 2984 Staddle, Swine's Grin Tavern

Aravir had been free with coin and most of the patrons of the local cultural centre were in the best of humours. Although looked askance upon for being a never do good homeless Ranger, with a suspiciously cloak swaddled and mysteriously short wife, his purchase of property and being in good books of the generally respected Master of the Hall gave him some credit. He looked at the mostly hobbit clientele and reminded himself that they were no smarter than the Elder Council of the Angle. He glanced at his companions - at one elbow he had the half-terrified, half-giggling Ashtuzual. At his other elbow he had the "expert in making ploinking noises over ale" he had taken in on a week-long loan from the Prancing Pony. They had arranged a signal at which the "musician" was to underscore salient moments of the tale with an omnious TUM-TUM-DUM sound on his instrument.

Once he had the hobbits (and a few Big Folk) with) equipped with a pint and with attention on him he began the tale of the circumstances leading him and his wife (as he consistently presented Ashtuzual to the propriety obsessed but always with sex on their mind hobbits) ...

... and never before the Sun had shown on a prettier wee lass than Lothiriel. Her green eyes were like forest dales, her golden hair in curls like sheep's fleece, her skin as smooth like a pigs bladder, her teeth like snow capped Misty Mountains reflecting the setting Sun. Her lips were red and her cheeks rosy. But one day the Fey Folk appeared to curdle milk, cast the bad eye to stop the hens a' laying and the vilest deed of all – Aravir lowered his voice which made his listeners lean towards him - to cast magiks on wee babes ( _gasps and shudders)._ And one of the fey folk – Glorfindel was his name, which means Bloody Spear in the language of the elves - was to sprinkle powdered toads' testicles mixed with crushed bone from the heart of a three horned elk over the bairn but Lothiriel smiled at him and that sweet vision stayed his fell hand and he could not rob her of her beauty. So he slinked back home to the elvish village in the swamps. And there he was greeted by the screech of an old crone, his wife, whose looks had faded over time and needed restoring with beauty stolen from Mannling babes – "yer so no getting any tonight, ye bumbling lout" – and so sleep he did in the shed with the garden tools _._ And three more times did he go the village of Springfield to rob Lothiriel of her looks for the old crone Galadriel, which means Cold Fish in the language of the elves. Although some say it means Cat Lady, after her graceful dancing in her youth. And two times more did he stay his fell hand over the innocent babe, but the third time he returned he committed the deed! YES! He had enough of the cold garden tool shed and he lusted for his wife's renewed beauty, for her hair long and golden, for her smooth thighs, for her folds covered with golden curls and dripping with juices like waterlogged moss, for her breasts smooth and hard like September apples, for her hips and buttocks firm like a three year heifer's udder, her lips red and full and sweet like strawberries. And so he hardened his already black heart and robbed the sweet babe of her fairness. The crone's face was again pale and fair, her eyes sparkling and teeth white and sharp. And whilst Glorfindel and Galadriel partook gleefully and joyfully in pleasures of the flesh, a young mother's heart broke when she cast her gaze upon her babe, so fair in the morning and so ugly in the eve! Her eyes now the colour of blood, her skin like tanned leather, her fingers once tipped with pink nails now ending in black claws. And pearl-like dainty teeth no more – now yellow and strong teeth with which she can take a bite out of a two by six plank. This is the tale of my wife's woe. We had been troth plighted while in our cribs to end a blood feud between our families – between the Rangers of the Star and the Rangers of the Rose ( _Star and Rose on cloaks indicated_ ) - and had we not wed, streams of blood greater than Brandywine after spring snowmelt would have flowed. Yet our lands are now defiled, despoiled and desolated by fell trolls of the north, and thus we seek abode in Breeland. And that is why my wife tries to keep her face hidden.

A few strategically placed sobs during the telling and a well measured dose at the end did the story no harm.

()()()()()()()()()()

Bilbo, who had volunteered to come along with the Rorimac provided movers, was helping the odd couple with smial arrangement.

"Fine shortsword you have there, Mister Baggins. May I see the blade?"

For a moment the Hobbit did not know what to do. But after a pause he passed the long knife to the startled orcess.

"Wha ... wha ... why does it shine? It's glowing blue ..."

Bilbo checked if anybody is without earshot and whispered into the pointed ear:

"It's of old elvish make. It does that when there are orcs near."

She gave him a searching look.

"So you are not buying the cursed ugly Big Folk maiden story, then?"

Bilbo smiled remembering the outrageous tale of the curse and shook his head.

"No. And I've known what you are since I tracked Shorty back to the smials and I've seen you there. But I didn't need the blade for that. I've been around a bit and I know how an orc looks like. I might be the only hobbit that does. You see, I was at the Battle of Five Armies."

The name did not appear to ring a bell with Ashtuzual.

"Beyond the mountains, some thirty five years ago - orcs, dwarves, elves, eagles ... "

"Oh! Bolg's Fuckup!" – A fan girl's squee interrupted him.

"Every orc knows of that battle! You must be a great warrior!" – The orcess looked at the hobbit with newly found awe and admiration. Leaning into him she gushed "You must tell me all about it, of how brave you must've been ..."

Suddenly it dawned on her and she looked quizzically at the Shireling.

"You are not ratting me out? Why? Surely you've seen my folk at their worst."

"I've seen _you_ at your ordinary. I've seen you rubbing noses with Pansy. I've seen you around the mites at the smials when you didn't know you were watched. Yes, I spied on you two there. Then I've seen you around Hobbit and Big Folk alike. I can see that the Ranger trusts you. I can see that he likes you. That also counts for something. I'm sure you have quite a tale to tell. I'd love to listen to it should you decide to share. I have no right to ruin your life, or – as a hobbit would say, to upset your barrow."

Ashtuzual hugged him in silent gratitude.

After a moment she asked:

"You think he likes me?"

()()()()()()()()()()()()

Bree, a few years later

\- "Yrch!" - The elf cried when he spotted Ashtuzual buying eggs at the market and drew his blade. His charge at her was instantly intercepted, however.

A Breelander matron, seeing what he was doing and the source of his reaction punched her stout finger in the warrior's chest and pushed him back.

\- Want to finish what you started, eh, elf? 'Tis not enough what yer magiks did on 'er - she shoved him again - leaving 'er as ugly as she iz, now you wanna slit 'er throat, eh? - another shove - now uze not in yer elven realms and 'ere we iz proper folks – shove - and we don't let fey folks hurt innocent lasses - shove - so ye better put away that knife of yers ...

The last shove pushed the ancient elven warrior into the back of a pig led on a rope by Brambo Underhill. After a squeal and intricate footwork - the squeal was the pig's, not the First Born's, but the fancy footwork was shared - the veteran of the Last Alliance lost his footing and fell into the mire of the marketplace. Goodwife Magda Brambles was in fine form this day and bending over the blonde elf kept on _ASKING_ how would he feel if his own daughter had been subject to orc sorcery and sported the face of a battered sow and now some bad orc was out to gut her.


	20. Uncle giving the Talk, part I

AN: Boring world building chapter

.

February 2984 Staddle, smial at Goat Run 2

.

"What exactly led to your speaking ban in the Council, Aravir?"

"You know the shit that Thannor and the "Pure Blood" faction spews, of course. On one thing they are correct – every lad marrying outside the Angle means a lass or widow of our kin is left without a husband. Which would've been no issue at all, as it happens once every ten years or less often. But outsider wives is something blown out of proportion because our population is not normal, is not - what to call it - healthy?"

"You've been to other lands, you know Breeland. I may not be as traveled as you, but I've seen other lands too. It is always roughly half and half between the sexes. Look around the Angle, it is half and half up to twenty. Then the lads start ranging and by forty you have two women for every man. And with older age the ratio gets worse - while our women can bear children past sixty. That means fewer children with every passing year. That is killing us. There are abandoned homesteads in almost every village I've seen. "

"So what did you say, then?"

"I suggested polygamy. Two wives, for starters."

Aragorn almost swallowed his pipe.

Aravir sheepishly continued.

"It is absolutely alien to our customs but it is proven to work. Children ..."

Aragorn chuckled. Then he burst into laughter interrupting his uncle. Thinking of the Council members he imagined their faces at such a suggestion. Aravir calmly waited out his Chieftain's bout of mirth.

"We _are_ dying out, Aragorn, that remains a fact. You have to do something about it. After 50 years of rudderless regency you can finally bring about change. Things have been running more or less unchanged for the last seventy years and that is the root of the problem. My brother - your father - did not live long enough to do anything about it."

"What happened? Was the problem apparent at his death? Later?"

"It was the Fell Winter of 2911 that caused it. Over one season we lost as many Rangers as we used to over a score of years or more. Father maintained the level of patrolling he inherited, laying the seeds of today's problems. When he took over from grandfather Argoniu he sent out all lads with completed training into the Wild Lands. I checked records and talked with old Rangers – they remember that after finishing training they spent five to ten years on border patrol inside the Angle. Few saw the Wild Lands before thirty. Whereas in 2912 everybody with completed training was sent out."

"But aren't young Rangers mentored? Always sent out with experienced men?"

"True, they are. But nothing beats having those five to ten years of field experience. Even if in relative safety, ranging in larger groups and in well known terrain, that what they had been drilled to do becomes second nature. As to mentoring – remember how Tarkil and I rescued Ash .. Lothiriel? "

"You can call her Marrow Slurper to my face, Shorty, I don't mind" – Aragorn smiled.

"Using her cover name is becoming second nature ... but never mind."

"We, each with thirty years of experience in the field under our belts, could barely contain our fury and not be hasty. Imagine a pair with a young hothead. In many cases the youngster would bully the mentor to attack too soon and both would die. Now think of those seventy years and all the pairs, groups of Rangers this could have happened to. Sometimes a commander is nudged by subordinates. Our Numenorean heritage makes us opinionated donkeys."

Although Aragorn had ample experience with non-Numenorean opinionated Donkey Lords of Rohan or Haradrim nobility, he did not interrupt his uncle's rant.

"So, you know of the cause – higher casualties amongst the twenty something's put in the field in 2912 as an emergency measure. The number of Rangers in the field was maintained, but losses were much higher than before 2911. To compensate for these losses an ever larger part of each year's cohort was sent out."

"Have you noticed that there are few artisans under a hundred? Under eighty? These are the men who had the choice of not joining the Rangers before the Fell Winter. They stayed in the Angle, learned and then plied their trade. When they grow old or die they close shop, no successors. Today we _exempt some_ of their grandsons from service in the Rangers so that there would be any tradesmen at all. Some pass on their workshops to their daughters or granddaughters, where this is feasible. Often braving prejudice too. And only if they have these granddaughters at all." - he added bitterly.

"But the loss of tradesmen is a lesser matter – Rangers make do with their scarcity and lowering quality by repairing or buying kit outside the Angle – Imladris, Mithlond, Bree, Ered Luin dwarrows, heck, I myself used Hill Men villages in the north for that and I've seen Dunlending work on others."

He pointed to his boots:

– "Dwarrow made, I've broken shins with them" – he added fondly.

\- "Anyway, by the time we were born in 2931 – you, the desired heir, me - the unexpected late life present ..."

Shorty half-smiled and raced into another digression.

"Old timers told me father was a bit embarrassed to have both you – a grandson, and me – a son, on the way at the same time." - Aravir sighed, he was born posthumously, and he did not remember his brother Arathorn as he had been two at the time of his death.

\- "But back to topic - ... the damage had been done. The high death rate of the twenty something's led to an increase of the annual levy. A vicious circle – too many greenhorns dying who are then replaced with more greenhorns ...

"And then" – Aravir sighed – "the worst thing happened. Your father died. There was nobody to take action. For fifty bloody years. The Regency Council continued all previous polices waiting for you. It was too big a change for a committee to make. So we have reached the point where almost all boys get the star and that is barely enough to cover losses. And these boys are the sons of the last generation not have been sent to the field at twenty. The following cohorts will be smaller. We are dying out. I didn't tell you this immediately after your return as I was afraid you'd not understand, being away for thirty years."

Aravir gave his nephew a glare.

"I was also mad at you for staying away thirty years when you were needed here."

()()()()()()()()()

March 2984 Staddle, Market

The dwarrow tinkerer stopped praising his wares in mid sentence and groped for his weapon. Guntram Busybody asked, without turning to check what did the bearded gentleman see behind his back:

"Do you think you are looking at an orc?"

"Mahal. Yes." Grunted the astonished tradesman.

"As I can't hear any screams that is no orc. That is Goodwife Shorty you are looking at. Elves cursed her when she was a baby and she's stuck looking like that, the poor thing."

"The perfidy of the tree-shaggers knows no bounds", the dwarrow whispered in horror.

"Wait 'till I tell the boys back at Ered Luin about this ..."


	21. Uncle giving the Talk, part II

AN: Another world building chapter

.

February 2984 Staddle, smial at Goat Run 2

"So what do you propose?"

Aravir held up his hand and ticked off on his fingers.

"Simplest solutions – for the lack of men – bring in outsiders, for lack of children - polygamy, for the losses bleeding us white – a cut back on patrols."

"How did the Council react?'

"Everybody stared yelling at once, at me, and I was made to feel that I'm being put in the corner on the donkey bench with a dunce cap to think over my misbehaviour."

The image of Aravir in the corner glaring from under the cap made Aragorn chortle. Aravir was not amused.

"I suggested training the women in weapon use, like they do in Rohan. And volunteers amongst them, on quarter pay, could be used for low risk missions. Or border patrol."

"Are you trying to get me killed or what?!" Aragon lashed out.

"The ... the SOD OFF* crowd would be stringing me up and nailing my guts to the gallows the moment I mooted this!"

"Again brutal calculus – two girls riding courier missions together inside the Angle on quarter pay – they live with their parents anyway – that replaces one Ranger for patrols in the Lone Lands. Border patrol – instead of a pair of Rangers, four twenty something women and a retired Ranger – best if a grandfather of one of them, or at least a grandfather himself. I know that mixing young people of the two sexes is likely to cause trouble."

"Absolutely out of the question."

Aravir argued for arguments sake, to test his nephew's views.

"I know – and you probably know much better than me – that some ellith fight. And Rohan has skildmede, same as some Easterlings."

"Don't waste my time, Aravir", Aragorn was evidently ill disposed towards the idea. "This idea is almost as bad as polygamy."

"I will drop the idea – but it is bad for another reason. The men released by women's service would got out on patrols, keeping up the haemorrhage. This would only speed up our doom. But some weapons training ... "

"Naaaah ..."

Aragorn evidently did not wish to contemplate the outrageous idea of mixing women with weapons at all and demanded less controversial suggestions.

"What BESIDES polygamy or getting our women killed – or worse - do you suggest?"

"The cut back in patrols by one third is self explicatory. It might be enough to stop our slide in numbers, or maybe not. Maybe a cutback by _half_ is needed, I don't know. I tried to put it into numbers but I got such a headache ... " – Aravir swept his hand over his head, still frustrated by his defeat by calculus.

"We can bring in more men. We can bring in all orphan boys of Middle Earth, up to ten or twelve, so that we mould them to our ways. We could limit ourselves to Gondor to keep the pure bloods happy. No, don't say anything, just think it over."

Aravir evidently had given the issue much thought and wanted to spew everything at one go without interruptions.

"That would pad our numbers and put more twenty something's into the field and with losses constant - would save more of them for marriage later. This would be more for the long term. But we can also tackle the problem here and now. We can hire mercenaries – please Aragorn, let me finish. I'm not talking about veterans who – although highly proficient with arms – are the same sort of robbers and rapists we protect Eriador against. I'm talking about young men, in their late teens. Hill Men, either from the Mountains or those already in Arnor, Dunlanders, maybe Boernings or Rohirrim. Sindar speaking men of Gondor would be best, of course."

He could see that here he gained Aragorn's not only attention but also interest.

"Why late teens? Same as the orphans – we hire them young to mould them to our ways. Small units, two Rangers with up to ten such men. After two or three years of action those deemed to be suitable would be assigned to ordinary patrols for further tests of character. And after about twelve years of service, of education in our ways and testing, at around thirty years of age those of appropriate quality would become full Rangers. They would then be allowed to settle in the Angle. With the dearth of men they'd be married within a year, I'd wager. "

It was clear that this was Aravir's bee in the bonnet. Aragorn nodded, he could well see why Pure Bloodists viewed his uncle as somebody dismantling the Dunedain from within, through "thinning" of the blood. If half a dozen, maybe ten women of non-Westernesse stock got them unhealthily excited, then the prospect of "lesser men" consorting with their daughters or sisters would make them froth at the mouth.

"And those who will not meet the grade would still have given useful service in killing orcs and Evil Men."

"I could form the first such unit – to test the idea, with no obligation to eventually take the best of them amongst us – this year. I'd need one more Ranger to do it and I'd ask Aithon to help me. I suspect he is game. I know that he is one hundred thirty, but he is hale and bored. And with the youngsters to stand guard, fetch wood and water he would save his strength for passing on his knowledge to them. He knows twice as many tricks as I do – one hundred years of field experience ... and I'd not be taking anybody out of the line. Well, besides myself."

And so Aravir continued for hours, answering questions which Aragorn might have. After exhausting military and economic matters they moved on to private life.

"Is the council moaning for you to get married? Whom are the matchmakers throwing at you now? Or are you the silent do-it-yourself type and you are courting on the sly?"

"I'm betrothed ..."

Aravir immediately sported a broad smile and warmly patted his nephew on the arm.

"Who's the lucky lady? Do I know her? When's the wedding?"

To his surprise Aragorn was circumspect.

"You know her. She's Arwen, Lord Elrond's daughter."

Still bubbling with cheer the blue eyed Ranger whistled.

"You lucky dog! She's one pretty lass for sure! So she likes you too?"

"Yes, she does. Only that ..."

"Her father went for the full length, five year betrothal?" Aravir jumped into the sentence.

"Worse" – Strider groaned. "He'll give her away when I'm King of Gondor."

Aravir was open mouthed and speechless. He found it hard to believe this was not said in jest. He moved his open mouth a few times without a sound.

"The ... the ..." he repeated and than sprang away from the table overturning his stool. He started pacing across the room and cursing his 58 times removed uncle in the most vulgar ways possible. Aragorn was sure he heard _golug_ and _pushdug_ somewhere – Ashtuzual evidently was rubbing off on his uncle. He guessed that _balaak_ must have come from the same source too. A good kick to the stool combined with the sound of splintering wood calmed down Shorty a bit.

"Killing a dragon would have been easier! Or he could have just said no! You are fucked! She's fucked! I'm fucked! The Dunedain are fucked! Oh, the fucking fucker, how could he fuck us so?"

"How could he do that to you!? To Arwen!?"

The furious Ranger paced the room, taking delight in trampling the remnants of the stool.

"Saying "NO" would have been less cruel than _this_. He most be out of his fucking mind – he's asking you to wreck Gondor, the strongest bulwark against the Enemy, by obliging you to wrestle its rule away from the throne stealing Stewards or to eat warg shit and grin in happiness. Kinstrife all over again!"

Aravir stopped pacing and pressed his head against the wall. He spoke without looking at his nephew.

"Any chance for a pregnancy to help things move along?"

"ARAVIR!"

"Abduction?"

"Nope. She won't do that."

"How come you are taking it so calmly?"

"I had time for my emotions to calm down."

Aravir resumed his pacing.

"Any chances for ..."

"No, we love one another. And her grandmother says were "fated for one another".

Aragorn knew this bought him a moment of respite from questions and suggestions while his uncle worked out who that might be. He never had been one interested in family trees. He himself had been shattered by Elrond's terms – in some way it was touching to see his closest kin going berserk for his sake.

"Fated." Aravir spat. "Fated to pine for one another and die miserable."

"I still recommend ..."

"Shut it. I won't dishonour her."

"And is that donkey of a Peredhel giving her honour?" the stout Ranger was back to full voice. And back to full rant as well.

"He as much as told her " _you're dying an old maid, 'cause your betrothed ain't good enough for me! He's TRASH!_ " He's our fucking kinsman, for Elbereth's sake!"

"And what makes him so high and mighty, that we ain't good enough for his lordship? He lords over a fucking elven principality in the Misty Mountains smaller then the fucking Angle. Is he trying to prove something to somebody?

...

"Maybe he is, he never even tried to claim High Kingship. So maybe the wanker has a problem. Do the elves have Pure Blood loonies like we do? Is being a Peredhel his problem? Is that it? Is it that he is less elf than Ashtuzual – she's pure corrupted elf after all, while he's only half Eldar?"

Aragorn was shocked by the parallel and barked - "Aravir, you are going too far! Hadn't it been for him the Dunedain would not have lasted so long. "

Seething and panting Aravir looked at him and snarled – "You stay. I need a walk to cool down".

()()()()()()()

* SOD OFF - Save Our Daughters Outraged Fathers' Front


	22. Life on the Range 2984

Summer 2984, North Downs

Aravir and Tarkil were to make part of a four man patrol. Ashtuzual would be a semi-official add-on to it. But there had been a last gasp change of plans and the son of Arador was given a mission to the South East of the Angle. This meant that the Heir was replaced by Ears.

()()()()()()()()

Ashtuzual was kitted pretty much like a Ranger, although her sword and bow were shorter. Her healer's kit was larger than usual, though, with various unusual – for a Ranger, extras. She did not have high hopes for midwifery exploits, but she'd not thumb her nose at a foaling, lambing nor calving. And sewing Rangers up was a given.

()()()()()()()()

She spent the first week hissing at Tarkil as he, jointly with Aravir, had bespoken a hardened leather cuirass for her. And forced her to wear it too, for "her own good" and "because we care about you". Her pack was lightened – "those trolls can carry a bit more" but she finally growled that orcs were known for lacking many things – but not the capacity for gruelling marches.

()()()()()()()()

Once they set out of Breeland, through Chetwood and skimming the Midge Marsh she was conscious of the occasional glare from Ears and almost constant starring from Nightingale. Being around Aravir gave her high resistance against glares but constant starring was new. The Hobbits and Big Folk in Staddle tried not to stare and were slowly getting used to her anyway. After two days she had enough and confronted him.

()()()()()()()()

"Why are you gaping at me? Can't you just glare once in a while?"

Surprisingly the giant was defensive.

"I've ... I've never seen an orc before. That's why I keep on looking at you, miss." ( _Miss!?)._

"You don't look as ... bad as I was expecting".

"Ugly, you mean." – she corrected him, lowering her head a bit and looking at him through her eyelashes. This was not hard to do, considering her eye level was not much above his navel.

He did not have enough beard yet to cover his blush. He waved his huge hand at more or less the level of her head.

"My baby sister is about this high, like you are ..." ( _what was it with men and baby sisters which made them mushy?_ )

"All right – have you seen enough? Will you stop staring now? Or should I bare my teeth and make a fierce face at you?"

She interpreted the bass chuckle as a "yes".

With a "WAAAGH!" and open mouth she lept at his throat.

They shared latrine duty for a month.

()()()()()()()()

After a few days Ears took her aside. He eyed her coldly but without malice. He assumed - and hoped - that after three years of not murdering any rangers she will not pull that off on his watch. "We will be working in pairs. The most experienced with the least – that's me and 'Gale, and the middle ones – Honey and 'Berry. You are the odd ... you don't have a pair. So I have a special task for you. Watch 'Gales's back. Whenever we split, you go with my pair and you help him stay alive. You have less training than he has but you've been running around in the Lone Lands for how many years now?"

"Three with _ta_ ... Rangers."

"And how many before?"

"Also three ... "

"Good. We'll see to your training too."

()()()()()()()()

The orcess finally had her real opportunity to study the _tarks_ up close. The first year at Sarn Ford she had kept to the sidelines, while during the second her interaction had been limited almost exclusively to Aravir. Frankly, she had had more contact with Hobbits over the last six weeks than with tarks over three years.

The leader was the ninety five year old Ears – he'd lost one ear in combat, the other was flush with the skull, making him look like missing both. She knew him by sight from last year. Tarkil, of course, she knew well. Strawberry was a youngster, on his third patrol. Another acquaintance from the Sarn Ford, but from two years back. He was one of the few who stooped down to speak to her. Nightingale was a gregarious and chatty – for a Ranger, that is, he'd register as a grumpy misanthrope among any other kindred – youngster. And a giant of a man too – taller and broader than Strider. He was twenty and it was his first patrol.

To her eyes three of the Rangers, with a liberal dose of goodwill, could pass off as brothers. They followed the same pattern of raven hair - straight or wavy, grey eyes, elongated facial features. Strawberry was different – he had a round skull and face instead, as well as brown – not black – hair. She was confused whether it was because he was from the Third House of Haleth clan, or his ancestors were Hill Men, or were Hill Men and the Haleth guys one and the same. She would have to ask him about this again.

()()()()()()()()

Before sleep took her, her memory drifted back to the night before Aravir left for Dunland. They had been sitting in front of the fireplace. They touched hands, then moved towards one another. Then they embraced and began to kiss. She sighed at the memory of the kisses and hands on her body and felt a wave of warmth. Then they went to bed to consummate their passion. And then it was total disaster. When he was on top she shook and sobbed at the memory of the pain caused by men or orcs on top of her. When they tried with him behind her she shook and sobbed and wanted to scream when she remembered how being fucked in the ass had hurt. She really wanted to give him pleasure so she managed to compose herself for a moment. With her on top he tried to enter her but suddenly stopped, took her off and turned away mumbling about causing her pain and harm. Yet she knew from other females that there should be no pain and that there should be pleasure for her too. Frustrated, mad at themselves for their failure to pleasure the other and exhausted from the tension and failed efforts they slipped into sleep. In the morning, with senses and memories numbed by sleep, they finally found - and gave - pleasure.

()()()()()()()()

Tarkil stood watch. He was almost sure his suspicions from last year were correct. Ashtuzual was behaving in a manner he had seen among his sisters, cousins, and nieces. He dreaded the day when he'd catch Almarian, his eldest, at it. An unseeing, empty gaze into the distance accompanied by heavy sighing. Often with a blissful expression thrown into the bargain. He needed to have a serious talk with Aravir about his intentions and plans. He sincerely regretted seeing his friend for only a few moments in Bree with no opportunity to talk. He hoped that he had been honourable and not brought any grief upon the orcess.

()()()()()()()()

"You should have some cool Ranger nick ... "

SLURP

"Stop that, or Honey will have your ass again ... "

"Hmphr, don't lick the knife, don't eat the liver raw, don't crack the bones to reach the delicious SLURP – all I get is nag, nag, nag ... and I already have a nick, it's Lothiriel."

"What sort of nick is that, that's a real name ..."

"Well, in my case flower maiden _is_ a nick."

"Let's call you Flower then."

"Naaaa!"

"How 'bout 'Liver', then?"

"Hmm ... "

"I've got it – 'Li'lle Liver'!"

"I cannae live with that ... "

"Honey and Ears ain't looking - I cracked another bone open for you ... "

SLURP

()()()()()()()()

Rushing from cover to cover they crept along the side of the enemy camp to get into position. He glanced back and eyed his charges. He saw 'Gale stumble over a stump and fall. Li'lle Liver intentionally sprawled on the ground next to him and poked him in the ribs - to make him roll over and show his belly. She checked him for damage, had he impaling himself on something relatively sharp, like an unfortunately placed broken branch, for instance. Ears smiled as the two of them in such a position together looked so much like a sow with piglet. Turning his attention ahead again and planning out the next rushes he idly thought – once again - that he was relying on an _orc_ to keep the greenhorn alive. And he once again shook his head with disbelief. Over the last ten years he had lost two Rangers on their first patrols. That hurt. He wished to never have to tell families that the bones of their twenty year old were somewhere in the Lone Lands.

()()()()()()()()

The scene was so familiar as to make it almost domestic. Nightingale and Ears were pilling wood next to the orc corpses, Honey was comforting a sobbing boy, Lothiriel was sewing up Strawberry.

"Wouldn't it be better if you were with the boy? You a woman and all? I can wait ..."

Without interrupting her ministrations the orcess replied:

"No. Not today and not next week. The last thing he wants now is to see an orc mug over him. And I'm better than Honey in stitching, being a woman and all ..."

Strawberry smiled. He had become tolerant of the orcess two years previously, on the Sarn Ford Station. Yet she still aroused his curiosity.

After a moment she added - "And Honey is a wonder with that sort of thing. He was the sob pillow for the lasses when I was saved."

"You say – saved. Not – captured?"

"I was a slave in a band like this. The boss wanted to sell me off as a breeder but thinking of it today, I think he was too stupid to see that I would find no buyers. Too small and scrawny."

She moved on to another new and unwelcome opening in the Ranger's body.

"I'd be running around with a band like this" – she motioned to the dead orcs – "boinked by anybody who fancied a fuck, venting my misery and hatred of everybody and everything on the _shara_ we raided. I'd be a cruel and vicious bint, taking it out on anybody even lower than me. A miserable life."

She finished the stitch and gazed expressionlessly into the distance for a moment. Then she shook her head as if to clear it.

"Saved, not captured."


	23. A busy summer

2984, North Dunland, Glanduin River Valley

Aravir was enjoying himself on his recruitment drive. He started off with a seventeen year old lad from Archet he'd overheard speaking of wishing to see more of the world. As Carmac was the third son in addition to some daughters his father gladly pocketed the enlistment bonus and made a squiggle on the sheet. The lad could pose for the Illustrated Peoples and Tribes of Arnor Guide as the archetypical Big Folk Breelander – the blue eyed ranger thought. Brown eyed, stocky, curly dark mousy hair, round faced, maybe 5'7".

On the way south, while bypassing the Angle they picked up Aithon with a pack horse carrying clothing and weapons for the recruits.

The three Dunlendings he picked up later were in similar vein to the Breelander. Fifteen to eighteen, as he preferred them young. Meinir was outright sold to him, Rys was an orphan and Bledyn was pushed out the door in lke manner and for the same reasons as Carmac had been. In candidates he looked for honesty and a certain innocence.

"Been bleeding for three years now ... "

"Has all her teeth ... "

"Broad hips on her ... "

An unexpected problem he encountered was the offer of girls and boys as slaves. Apparently the harvest had been so and so, too much rain had rotted the potatoes, and climatic anomalies hurt wintertime trapping and hunting. In the first three villages he gritted his teeth and turned down all offers, trying not to look into the sometimes pleading eyes of the offered merchandise. He was no longer enjoying himself and finally broke down in the fourth hamlet which made a pigsty of the Angle look like Imladris. Her hopeful green eyes and twig like arms of the girl's younger siblings made him hand over the money for her and dash out from the hovel. With an awful taste in his mouth and a knotted stomach he led Meinir (also purchased) and Tesni towards the camp outside the village where Aithon and the Dunlending boys awaited them. He had Carmac at his side in the village as he trusted him to guard his back. Nothing he had heard before made him particularly trustful of Dunlendings. His emotional state was not helped by overheard snippets:

"Fucking Numenors. Cut down our forests and forced us into the mountains where we have to sell our daughters not to starve ... "

"Only one? We'll have to wait for the slavers from the south then ... "

That got Aravir thinking – had some Umbar pirates figured out that sailing up the Gwaithlo or Isen and buying their pathetic merchandise was ultimately cheaper and much less risky than braving Gondor's navy and coastal levies? If indeed, then the south would call for more patrols. Patrols to the south of Tharbad should intercept them. But did they have enough Rangers for that? Sadly he had to admit to himself that no.

He felt that upon noticing the girl presence Aithon's gaze on him could kill. Aravir just raised his hands in sign of acceptance of any and all criticism, lowered and shook his head and said:

"I couldn't take any more. I can't take this any more. Enough. Let's go north."

The newest recruits generated one more problem. They were lousy like an elf's mullet. To avoid the impression of shaming anybody Aravir ordered a general shaving of beards and heads. Aithon approved of this - it would have a bonding effect – and in his youth he'd seen many even more stupid ideas taken to fruition by Rangers on their first patrols. Aithon's head escaped the razor due to baldness – although he laid down his beard for the Greater Good, while the double standard allowed the hysterical Tesni to preserve half an inch of hair.

()()()()()()()()

2984, North Downs near ruins of Fornost

They struck camp half a day from a Dunedain hold in the hills near the ruins of an old fortress. Called Fornost in the language of the _tarks_ or Norbury in Common, although Breelanders spoke of it as Dead Man's Dyke. It was huge. The entire town of Bree would fit inside just one "quarter" of houses.

Ashtuzual was holding her customary last watch. Her night vision and sense of smell gave her much better chances than a Man to catch a sneak pre-dawn attack. She sobbed quietly as not to wake up "her pair" – Ears and Nightingale. She cried over the injustice of it all.

She knew her life as it was now was much better than it could have been. She liked her life. But still some things hurt. The living of the lie of being a cursed Mannish woman. The constant living on edge – would some itinerant _goloug_ or _shakutarbik_ knife her or skewer with an arrow? And this lot of Rangers being so nice – not like the mostly sneering or hateful pricks at the Sarn Ford – made it even harder to take.

This _tark_ village – according to Tarkil one of several score fortified holds spread cross the Lone Lands – was hidden somewhere in the hills. He explained that the Enemy – through the Witch King of Angmar – waged war on the exiled Numenoreans through plagues. Hence the emptiness of Arnor. The resistance of the Dunedain of the North was worn down by successive waves of plagues cutting down their population and weakening them versus the orcs and Men enslaved by the Darkness. He gave a poignant example - one of the three Kingdoms of old – Cardolan – had fallen, but for 200 hundred more years survivors held out in the broken terrain of the Barrow Downs and Old Forest – and it was a plague which finally defeated them. To add insult to injury the Witch King summoned Barrow Wights to dwell there, conjuring them from the souls of his most stubborn enemies, to prevent this terrain be used by any opponents of Angmar in the future.

Hence the wariness of the Rangers to let outsiders into their settlements, to prevent yet another catastrophe. This was one of the reasons for the secrecy of the Angle's location and for the other Dunedain to live in such secret and isolated places.

She understood all that but still it hurt that she was - and would ever be – an outsider. She so much wanted to belong. The fact that the group waived its right to spend a night or two in relative comfort ( _and a bath!_ ) was touching, with Honey and Strawberry only dropping in to leave and pick up missives. But in some ways it hurt even more.

()()()()()()()()

2984, Eregion, early autumn

Several months in the field with his potential recruits were a humbling experience for Aravir. It was clear that his plan needed further work. He had completely overlooked the fact that he'd be working with raw recruits. Very little field craft and close to none weapon skills. Although he suspect the Dunlendings' mushroom lore would give the Hobbits a run for their money. The poor sods knew everything edible growing in the lands around them.

He now knew that he had a busy winter ahead of him. Caradoc would help with Westron lessons, Ashtuzual could lend a hand with some basics, but most weapons' and scouting training would be on him.

They had lost Meinir to an ambush by slavers – two Dunlendings, including a woman, and two queer looking fellows the likes of which he hadn't seen before – sallow skinned and squint eyed. The woman had confessed that they had mistaken them for competition and wanted to take over the "goods". The slavers were instantly overwhelmed as they had expected to fight only him and Aithon, not the whole group. Rys went into his notes where he recorded their progress and comments on character after he caught him mumbling that they should had had "sport" with the female slaver before killing her.

()()()()()()()()

2984, Eregion, early autumn

Aravir woke to some movement in the camp. It was Tesni slinking away on her business. He started thinking about her. Same as Ashtuzual three years ago more food made her blossom and put on curves. The Dunlending was looking tempting, no longer a sack of bones with a pair of big green eyes. He shifted inside his bedroll to accommodate the reconfiguration of content of his underwear. He _could_ , he thought idly. She was not likely to protest, the youngsters had no say on the mater, only Aithon ... and it had been almost half a year since he ... but he _would not,_ he decided. Pleased with his moral fortitude he slipped back into sleep. He had a disquieting dream featuring naked women manacled to upright poles.

()()()()()()()()

2984, South Downs

After greeting with an embrace Aravir looked up at his nephew and said:

"The Powers are smiling at us. I wished for a meeting for so many reasons!"

Aragorn glanced at the rest of the group.

"Let me get my bag." And to his unit – "One hour bivouac!"

Walking to beyond quiet earshot distance they heard the retired Ranger bark:

"Bledyn, you take first watch. NO! You don't sit – you STAND."

The blue eyed Ranger related his experience of the summer and encountered problems. He added information on Dunland – it was a kettle about to explode. Overpopulated, poor, selling children to make by, seething with bitterness and hate towards "Numenors" and "Forgoil". The question was where would it boil over – would they expand into the empty lands of Eregion, across the Glanduin and maybe Mitheithel, making them neighbours of the Angle and the elves of Imladris? Or would they cross the Greenway towards the sea, into the emptiness of Enedwaith whence they had been evicted by the Men of Numenor in the Second Age? Or would they seek revenge for the latest disaster in their sad history, their eviction from western Calenardhon?

Aravir puffed on his pipe and looked his Chieftain in the eye:

"The papers I've given you, besides the reports, include my renouncement of rights to the Chieftainship. In my and my children's name. Aithon witnessed me doing this of my free will. The wording allows you to announce it at your discretion."

Aragorn raised an eyebrow in question.

"Ashtuzual".

The leader of the Dunedain of the North sighed.

"I suppose you are as likely to give up on her as I am on Arwen?"

His cousin's face gave him the answer.

"We didn't make it easy for ourselves, eh, uncle? I've dreaded to hear this from you since that day in the Prancing Pony almost three years ago, and was sure that it was coming for some two years now. And since news of "cursed Lothiriel" reached me I knew it for sure. You wish my blessing?"

"Yes, please. You are the head of our House. I know she doesn't care, but I want to do it properly. For the children. Even if they'll be half-orcs they won't be bastards, if that'll make any difference ..."

"Halor son of Minion is your man now. He is two times removed from me and three times from you. He's the next in line."

An hour later Aravir with the three boys and the maiden continued westwards towards Breeland, whereas Aragorn and Aithon made their way towards the Angle.


	24. Fluff

2984, Staddle, smial at Goat Run 2

Aravir had ditched his retinue at the Forsaken Inn and continued down the Great Eastern Road on his own. He was in his prime whereas the youngsters still had some growing and much filling out before them. The were worn out and were to catch up with him at Staddle itself a day later. He was homesick and pined for his Dark Flower. He hoped that her patrol was back from the field already. Approaching his smial he heard a female giggle. It was Ashtuzual.

"You can sheath your sword, Master Hobbit. We know what it can do."

Followed by a bout of giggling and a male chuckle.

He kicked open the door to the living room. A smoke filled living room.

"Bang! Door go bang!" – Ashtuzual had a giggling fit.

"Door looks like mad Aravir! Eyes!" – this observation unhinged the orcess who clambered on her knees onto the couch and tried to squeeze herself between Tarkil's back and the backrest of the couch. He was going wide eyed from trying to watch her wriggling bottom and at the same time to assess what exactly was in the room.

"Eyes hurt!" came as a muffled screech from Tarkil's armpit.

The table was covered with trays with remnants of finger foods, with tankards of ale and a still smouldering pipe. And the hobbit's sword, which was partly sheathed with the visible part of the blade glowing blue.

Tarkil and that hobbit from Buckland – Bilbo Baggins – looked sheepish. The older ranger was patting Ashtuzual – with her head under his armpit – on the back. She was producing a mix of giggles and sobs.

"We gave her pipeweed, Shorty. Lothiriel was curious about it. As we were entertaining Master Baggins this seemed a good opportunity as any. Who'd know she'll react like this. Never seen anything like it ... "

The ex-Heir to the Chieftainship's heartbeat slowed down and the red mist receded. He registered the hobbit greeting him ( _in his own home?_ ) and explaining that some over inquisitive Hobbit teenagers did in fact react this way to Long Bottom's Special Blend ( _who's Bottom?_ ). He turned to take a better look at the sword ...

"SQUEEEEEEE!"

Ninety pounds of bouncing orc claws, teeth and muscle rammed him in the chest and bowled over onto his backpack and he was smothered with kisses ...

.

Aravir was not sure how far he could trust the Halfling. But considering what "Master Baggins" had prepared for breakfast he was well disposed towards the Shireling. Positively benign and lenient. A splendid fellow, that Baggins. Tarkil was also eating heartily what the hobbit had made while Ashtuzual was sleeping off whatever shit the two old fools had given her. He had started the day with explaining what he will do to them if they ever THOUGHT of repeating the experience, let alone doing it.

"What's the trick with that sword of yours", he asked the question which had sat at the back of his mind since his arrival in the evening between one mouthful and another.

"It glows when orcs are near."

The two rangers froze, Aravir with mouth open.

The Hobbit looked at them amused.

"I must say Ashtuzual took it in her stride better than you are doing just now. I've known what she is since spying at you on the Brandywine. I let her know that I knew just after you moved in here. The tale of the curse is a wonder, by the way. The next time I'm in Rivendell I'll relate the tale of "The Curse of Lothiriel" to Lord Elrond. Not sure if Lord Glorfindel would be amused, though." – he chuckled

So he's known about her from the very beginning! And didn't mind? At Rivendell? Swapping tales with the betrothed screwing Lord Elrond? The wee blighter was full of secrets and surprises!

They chatted amiably, swapping tales of their summer exploits. Tarkil and "Lil' Liver" had arrived two days before and chanced upon Bilbo on a pre-winter shopping trip to Bree. Deciding that the hobbit was privy to everything anyway Aravir disclosed his intention to propose and marry Ashtuzual. This was greeted by bellows of laughter from the two older males.

"You've certainly exchanged vows yesterday. _My_ _beaknosed bugeyed pigpink softskin_ sure sounded like "I take you as husband", Bilbo guffawed.

"I suppose _I'll love you forever my pointy eared Dark Flower_ can be liberally interpreted as "I take thee as wife" as well!" – Tarkil barely held his laughter.

"With the two of us as witnesses you two are as good as done!"

.

Once the hobbit left after elevenses and with dry rations to last him until Bree, Aravir and Tarkil continued talking. They let the orcess have a lie in. Considering the events of the evening the conversation drifting towards matters of family was not particualry surprising.

"Sometimes I despair for my daughters. 'Bout them getting married. And not ending up widows immediately afterwards. And they being mixed blood and all that."

"Seems you have picked up all the doom and gloom from me, Tarkil. They're pretty! Surely they'll snare some lad! There are pure blood snobs out there, but they're a minority. And who says that your son's in law have to die?"

"You are biased on the beauty part. As to gloom – could be. It was always you murmuring at how we are dying out, how we are killing ourselves by over-patrolling the Lone Lands. Of how many of the twenty something's die".

"True that. 'S my fault.

Meaningful silence interrupted by the blue eyed Ranger.

"Send your eldest daughters to me, to Bree."

"What?!

"Now that we are married Ashtuzual could have a child and stay here for the whole year. She'd chaperone them ( _Tarkil was not sure if this was a good idea_ ) and they'd give her a hand with the wee one. Plus there's a whole village of child crazy Hobbits to help them if need be. The girl's would see some of the world, brush up their Westron, learn some tricks – or maybe even a trade – which they wouldn't be able to in the Angle. Maybe – the exotic beauties they are – some boys would come a courting ..."

"Breelanders?! And they are children!" – Tarkil sputtered with surprise and indignation.

"Breelanders are ..." he stopped seeing the bemused face of his friend.

"Pray tell me, what Breelanders are ... besides a few of them being kinsmen you've never visited. Were you on the verge of telling me the same orcshit which that sad fuck Thannor is spreading around about Men of Darkness? What does that make you, Inzilbeth, your children? Or me. I suppose I'm so tainted by now that I should be eating babies for breakfast, I suppose. Raw." – Aravir sipped his brew. The hobbit sure knew how to make tea.

"As to them being children, the last time I looked my eldest grand-daughters" - Aravir always got a kick out of ribbing Tarkil over their strange legal degree of familial relationship - "Almarian and Elwing are in their mid teens. They are in the full bloom of young womanhood and not rattle shakers any more."

The bloodlust in Tarkil's eyes revealed that "womanhood" and his daughters' names in one sentence had worked their magic on him.

"You could send Aithon over with them, if you do not trust my wife and the hobbits which seem to have adopted us. I saw that fieldwork is beyond him now. He kept up until the end, but was ready to drop. Yet he'd still be restless, after so many years on patrol. He'd scout out Breeland and note all possible ambush sites within a sennight." – he added, smiling over the image of the old Ranger spying out the land.

"And maybe with them around, some liver will finally reach the pot." - he sighed.


	25. Angst

2984, Staddle, smial at Goat Run 2, late autumn

The two Rangers and the orcess were readying the smial for the arrival of the four youngsters. They were not expecting a clip-clop of hooves and being hailed from the road.

"Rangers, ahoy!"

The two men stood in front of the smial, eying the four cloak clad rangers on the road. One of them flipped back his hood and asked.

"Any of you answers to Aravir, son of Arador?"

"Don't be silly, Haladan, you've known me ... "

"This is Court Business, please. Any of you answers to Aravir, son of Arador?"

"Aye, it is I." The baffled and worried Aravir slid into the formal phrasing.

After Haladan and another Ranger confirmed his identity due to knowing him in person, Haladan asked."

"Do you, Aravir, son of Arador, accept the Court Ordered Servitude of Aithon, of no house, Swearing to his Supervision and Slaying if need be?"

At this one of the other riders swept back the hood of another, revealing Aithlon. He was slumped in the saddle, his cheeks were puffed up from fresh branding, and he looked two hundred years old.

"FATHER!" – Tarkil rushed to his sire.

He was intercepted by the third rider putting his horse in his path. He gestured towards Haladan.

"Tarkil, you have no known father. From hereinafter you are now known after your mother as son of Glynda, and your House shall be your own."

Aravir barely had the lucidity to stutter out the question.

"And what are his crimes against Folk and Land?"

"Murder and Filicide. In Cold Blood and without remorse."

It took a moment for Aravir to process the information.

"He killed Thannor?!"

Haladan nodded and repeated the formal request.

"Aye, I take upon me his Servitude and swear not to Stay my hand and Slay Aithon when I judge it right." - the son of Arador gave the necessary formula.

"Thus he becomes your bond and burden". Haladan completed the due process.

He jumped off his horse and walked up to the still astounded Aravir and took him by the shoulders. Looking into his eyes he broadened the picture.

"Let the horse rest the night, we rode hard to catch Tarkil here and not to pass him on the road. Once he takes care of his father send him to the Angle the fastest possible. Inzilbeth is at the capital and needs him. She's in the Chieftain's care. The children are taken care of, they're at the village with Olwina and Beleguron. Aragorn and most of the jury ran though hoops not to have to sentence Aithon to death. Infamy, Striking from the Rolls, Branding and Banishment was the least they could do. Aithon did himself no favours by refusing to say why he killed him, saying only he was too ashamed of Thannor's acts to say. "

He checked if Aravir was still on the same page with him, or had his attention wandered.

"Aithon also got off relatively lightly as the Pure Bloods could not lay a mark on him. Even though Thannor was their moving force, Aithon's numenorean bloodline is as pure as Isildur's piss. They could not press too much against Ye Olde Bloode of Numenor."

He passed a satchel.

"Here you have the sentence and letter from your nephew. Basically - as long as Aithon doesn't set foot in the Angle nobody will bother him. In the Angle - or in the Holds - he is to be killed on sight. Of lesser things - a group of four Dunlendings, a lass included, hailed us and claimed you were their leader. Asked me to relay that they should be here in half a candlemark. You are expanding - orcs, Dunlendings - whatever next, trolls? Never mind - we have to ride on, cousin. Namarie!"

He clasped his arm and went to his horse.

()()()()()()()()()()

Seeing Tarkil embracing his father the blue eyed ranger called out:

"Take him inside! I'll mind the horse!"

The big Ranger led his shuffling ( _Eru!_ ) father into the smial. The elder knew Ashtuzual by hearsay ( _Aravir had been positively verbose - as Ranger's go - on her subject during their summer campaign_ ) only but did not seem to mind that there was an orcess fussing over him. He was probably beyond caring at that point. It was her attempt to administer salve to his still raw brands that made him notice his surroundings.

"No girl, leave it be. It is my burden to bear. Now leave us alone, I have something to tell my only child." He spoke in harsh whisper.

She looked up to Tarkil who nodded almost imperceptibly to humour the old man.

Aithon looked at his son.

"Idiot. You should have told me everything twenty years ago. Inzilbeth finally told me. Same fool as you. I chanced upon her crying. Of course she tried to push me off, like so may times before. But this time I pried the truth out of her. About what had happened twenty years ago. Of how you had met. Of how you had done right with her. About that man berating her for being a Rohiric whore breeding useless half blood whores whenever he had the chance to do so. About such talk not moving her. She never told you of this?" He looked at Tarkil questioningly.

"I thought so. Same fool as you." He repeated.

"But this time that man had added that all my grand-daughters were for fit for was a brothel, that they were too low to be wives or mothers. That once a Blood Purity Law was passed it was to the whorehouse with them. That she could start training them already. Passing on the skills she had learnt in Rohan. – he spat out the hateful words, words meant to hurt as much as possible.

"After she calmed down I caught up with him, repudiated him and killed him. Then I gave myself up to the Court at the Capital. End of tale."

He glanced at the side table with the steaming stew and tankard.

"I see Aravir's betrothed has taken care of me. Leave me now. Ride to Inzilbeth and beg her for forgiveness for the twenty years of torment your stupidity and cowardice had given her."

"Your joint stupidity and cowardice." he added, to weaken the blow.

"Now go."

In the door Tarkil still managed to catch a mutter:

"I could've resolved it twenty years ago ... " - he almost turned back but he heard something sounding like a sob.

"Both are mine and Glynda's. Elbereth - how could they be SO different?!"

He gave his father the privacy he had requested.

()()()()()()()()()()

Once the newcomers had been taken care off and settled down Tarkil dragged Aravir out for a talk in the stable.

"I've never told you why I had not acknowledged Thannar as brother and why my home was closed to him. Inzilbeth hated him with a passion burning as hot as the forges at the Oronduin. Wouldn't pee on his grave, says she."

Aravir grunted to show that he was listening and to keep him going.

"We've kept it between ourselves to keep my father from the pain of knowing of what scoundrel Thannor had grown up to be.

"We two were on a courier run to your esteemed nephew masquerading as Thorongil in the Southern Kingdom. We were passing through the Westmark as his latest missive told us to seek him in Dol Amroth so we wished to take the direct route through the mountains. We ran into a skirmish between a company of Rohirrim horse – an eored – and an orc warband. We helped kill a few. The local lord – Eohric Eomersson – invited us to a feast to celebrate the hunt and his seneschal's son's first kill. "

Tarkil swallowed. His face became a mask and his voice was emotionless – the time honoured stance for speaking about emotional issues.

"The feast was despicable. Disgusting. After an hour the lady of the house and other high ranked women left. Then the filth dropped any veneer of civilisation. The only thing they did not do was shit in the corners. The Riders took the serving wenches whenever the urge came upon them, covering themselves with their cloaks for some shred of decency. The high point of the feast was the young Rider celebrating his first kill by ... by "bloodying his sword" with a servant on furs laid out in the middle of the hall. He took her like an animal, from behind. To the hoots and cheers and encouragement from the revellers. She was young, fifteen, if anything and she looked exactly like our niece Puignis. The hair colour was wrong, of course, but the face, the eyes ... "

"Like horses, Holy position for Eorling" – my neighbour noted with appreciation in broken Westron, adding that under the bad king Thengel such good old Eorling customs were being forgotten. Not like under good old King Fengel."

Aravir could hear his friend swallow again. He passed him the waterskin.

"I left at that point. I felt dirty. Ugh. At dawn I heard my brother speaking with somebody in our room and sat up in bed immediately. You know, the Ranger reaction. He was ... fondling the breasts of a young servant with one hand, the other busy deep up her skirt, his elbow hitching the hem up to her knees. Then with a smile to me he grunted:

\- "Not interested. Try him" - and jerking his head in my direction he pushed the dishevelled girl at me.

With tears in her eyes and clenched teeth she offered herself – her maidenhead - in return for being taken away from that place. When she said she was going to be the sword blooding centrepiece at one of the next feasts ..."

Another swallow. Tarkil held his head in his hands. He evidently was making breaks in the story not to weep.

"The man who used to be my brother told me I was being an weakling dolt. He told me ... to agree to whatever the girl wanted, to have a quickie – if I had the itch - and then to leave her. We were to deliver letters, not some irrelevant serving girls, he said."

...

"Grow up, be tough, he said."

...

"He even took the packhorse."

...

"We barely made it, I had to kill or maim several Riders and horses. All those years after Inzilbeth refuses to speak of Rohan or to use her previous name. Once she learnt our language she hasn't spoken a word of Rohirric. She wants no truck with people for whom it matters more who covers their mares than who fucks their daughters."

Tarkil wept long and bitterly into Aravir's shoulder.

.

AN:

Written with inspiring yammering of TommyGinger


	26. Soul Searching, Sobby, Sappy, Short

December 2984, Angle, Chieftain's Hall

Inzilbeth had been strong for twenty years. First she was strong for herself – to put behind her past, the degrading life amongst self professed Horse Lords proving their virility by fucking barely mature girls. Than she became strong for Tarkil – the man who took her out from that hell and did not wish anything in payment. Not like the men she had known – these had always demanded something from her body in return. A smile on her face was his just payment, he had told her. She came to love him for that. To him she lied of how Thannor spoke to her – to preserve any traces of sibling affections that might have survived. Then she became strong for Aithon and Glynda who accepted her like a long lost daughter even before anything blossomed between her and their son. This also applied to Aravir, Beren and others who - like Tarkil's parents – saw in her a young woman, bah, a girl-child in need of a home and a family. To them she lied – in collusion with Tarkil – on how they had met and how he had freed her. This they did to protect Aithon and Glynda from how dishonourable their older son had proven to be. And they kept it up to shield Aithon from the extent to what a twisted person his heir and future head of family had become. Then she was strong for her daughters – protecting them from the disgust their very existence made some of the Dunedain feel.

After twenty years Thannor finally shattered her defences. The vision that her daughters might have to endure the same filth she had unwomaned her. And with Aithon showing his age, Eru knows what the sick fuck could do in his capacity as Head of Family. Should the Pure Bloods gain the upper hand she'd run, she decided – she'd beg Tarkil to take them away, but if necessary she'd take her girls and run on her own – she'd run to Aravir and his orcess. Even if in consequence they'd end up with some barbarians or even orcs she'd expect it to be more honest. Without orcshiting about defending Free Peoples from tyranny. If that involved forcing girls into whorehouses she'd take her chances with the Enemy.

She had been strong for twenty years. And she'd probably be strong for several years more had Aithon given her more time. Had he arrived half a candle mark later she'd have composed herself over Thannor gleefully telling her how he'd put Almarian, Elwing and then - once they've grown - Miriel and Indis in a brothel. To allow men to satiate their baser instincts thus keeping maidens of Numenor pure and marriages intact. But Aithon had come upon her when she couldn't hide her tears and broke down her defences making her tell him the truth. He listened to her sobbed story with a grim face. Once she was done he embraced her and kissed her like a daughter. He said he loved her, her and the bairns, that he was sorry and that he should had done it twenty years ago. And he rode off. She again made herself strong. For Tarkil, for Aithon, for the girls.

Three days later riders bought her news that Aithon had killed Thannor and was to be tried for murder and filicide in the Capital. She begged her friends to mind the children and rode to the Capital to defend her father in law. She would be strong for him. Aithon refused defence and admitted to the deed but refused to say why. So she went to Aravir's nephew – funny how a man of same age can be an uncle to another – and she was strong for Aithon. She told Aragorn everything.

Now, with Thannor dead and his party – according to the Chieftain – dead as well – Aithon still living, even if exiled, she no longer needed to be strong. She felt empty, she did not know what to do. And she was worried would Tarkil still love and need her. Now that she no longer needed to be strong, and they no longer thad to lie to Aithon and the others. Would he forgive her lying to him, keeping quiet about all the filth Thannor had been saying to her over the years?

She felt she was abusing the Chieftain's hospitality but she felt adrift and did not have the energy to go home. The tension she had felt over the past twenty years by the presence of Thannor somewhere on the horizon was gone and she felt like a bow unstrung. It was as if she had been propping up a wall bearing down on her and that wall had been taken away.

She sat by the window and mindlessly sewed something. She screamed and sprang to her feet when something heavy thumped to the floor at her side. Clutching her hands at her chest she looked down at her husband kneeling before her. His face was reddened and tanned from the frost, his eyes bloodshot from the wind and lack of sleep. Icicles covered his moustache and beard.

"Forgive me for failing to protect you from Thannor properly. But ... but you should have told me ... "

She sank down to the floor to embrace him. They touched and whispered and kissed and sobbed until their knees could take it no more. Then they rode through the night to get back to their children.


	27. Domestic issues, news from afar

Winter of 2984-85, Staddle, smial at Goat Run 2

Ashtuzual lay with her head on her husband's arm, cradled between his body and elbow. She had her arm draped over him. She snuggled into his bulk –

_So much manflesh and all MINE!_

"Ara"

"Hm?"

"What will ... what will our children look like? Will they be able to "pass"? Without some fancy tale?"

Aravir tried to word his answer mildly and failed.

"I don't know. Any children beget in orc raids are not suffered to live."

"Not particularly surprising." Ashtuzual shrugged.

"Had those _shara_ fuckers gotten me preggers I'd had not wished to carry such a whelp myself."

She snickered.

"I'd be further appalled that I'd drop some disgusting ugly monster. With round eyes, small ears, disfigured nose, misshaped teeth, FUR on his face ... " she raised and pecked Aravir's cheek, then rubbed her cheek against his beard.

"Today I'd think such a baby beautiful .. "

"Any half orcs among the orcs?"

"I've heard about Men sometimes living with one clan or other, so I suppose that there could have been whelps off them. Same with captured _sharlob_ , although these rarelyy live long. But I've never seen any. I've only heard ... " she stopped as if to retrieve something from the depths of her memory.

"I think I heard that if the mother was an orcess they don't get to be called half orcs but honkers. Or was it horn keys? Honkies? Hookers? Hooters? Nay, it must be honkers. Supposedly if the Man is the sire the whelps look more Mannish like, with big noses."

She clambered upon him and stretched herself on her belly along his length, her head touching his chin and her toes somewhere around his knees. She loved it that there was so much of him. Frighteningly much, even. He embraced her and kissed the top of her head. She felt his hot breath on her ear tips. This felt good.

_purr warm manflesh purr_

But the question of their offspring's appearance kept gnawing at her mind.

"Ara?"

"Hm?"

"You and the other Rangers speak of the know all guy ... "

"What know all guy?"

"The _golug_ in the mountains. The one you call bad names for fucking up Aragorn's life ... "

"Oh, Lord Elrond the Wise, you mean."

_Giggle_

"You have never called him so nicely before."

"What about him?"

"Would he know how a honker looks like?"

"I suppose that if anybody knows, it'd be him."

"Could you ask him? Write him? I don't suppose I could talk with him ... "

"No. Doesn't like orcs much. Raped his _shauk_."

"Poor bugger. She live?"

"She went to the Elven Lands. This pretty much means she is dead for him. I'll write."

()()()()()()()()()()()()()

The newly weds planned for a child in a year's time. They decided to gamble on a six month pregnancy as was the norm amongst orcs. It seemed natural, as after all Ashtuzual _was_ an orcess so why should gestation length differ if the father was a Man? She should be in heat in late summer or early autumn, just right for a wintertime birth.

The smial, now commonly called a _den_ was rearranged to accommodate the new – both expected and unexpected - additions. The largest unused shed was made warm with bales of straw stacked outside against the planks and had a stove put in. That was the _cub-den_ of the four lads – with Lolan, a sixteen year old Breelander being added. Tesni had a small room to herself, just like Aithon. Once the ground thawed out in the spring the third pantry was to be converted into another room, for Almarian and Elwing, should their parents agree to their sojourn in Bree. The room would be expanded upwards, featuring a skylight, with the beds on a half storey, leaving the floor uncluttered to be used as dayroom. And in the summer another large room would be dug out by Hobbit tradesmen.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

"Aravir, I can smell on Tesni that she's in heat. She allowed to whelp? What shall we do about it? "

"Err ... em ... nothing. We do nothing about it. She's fourteen."

"I'm thirteen."

"But" – checks who is in earshot and lowers voice – "orcs come of age at between ten and twelve. Man come of age at between sixteen and eighteen. You are about twenty, twenty one in Mannish terms."

Ashtuzual mulled this over.

"Right ... And hobbits come of age at twenty five here and at thirty three in the Shire. Hmmm ... and the dwarrows at 40 was it? Or was it at sixty five? Different races ... . _Golug-hai_?" she looked at him for an answer.

"I think they are considered adult at fifty. Or at a one hundred. I don't remember for sure."

She rearranged the pieces of the puzzle in her head and digested the new knowledge.

"What if one of the lads wants to boink her?"

"Gets whipped. Bloody. At this age it is just ... wrong for a girl to be bedded."

"Can I do the whipping?"

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

The barn – unused as Aravir had leased out all the arable land to locals in return for a share in the produce – was converted into a salle. The lads worked out there twice a day. Overall supervision was forced upon Aithon, to keep him from gazing into the distance and mumbling "twenty years ago" and "why so different". In the morning the sparing was often against Lothiriel as a stand-in orc, as she was of similar size and strength. The young men had not been told, however, that her skill was above an average orc's. The older Rangers wished to prevent any compliance before it had chance to step in. Overestimating orc swordsmanship was not so likely to get them killed, after all. Tesni only took part in the morning training, as she was not expected to take to the field anytime soon. In the afternoons the sparing was against Aravir, representing the possible Evil! Men opponents they could run into. In good weather they also had archery training. Fieldcraft instruction was to come in spring and later, in the field.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

Aravir studied the letter from his Uncle. It let him stay abreast of the developments in the Angle. As they had hoped for, Thannor's death had greatly weakened the Pure Blood party. Aithon's refusal to disclose the details of his act deprived them of any grounds to turn him into a martyr to the cause. All they knew was that he disliked his sister in law and disproved of his brother's marriage. As Thannor had combined his father's tendency to stay quiet about his doings with an abrasive character there were many possibilities – with nothing known for certain – what exactly were the "deplorable acts" which led the Head of the House to kill his son and heir.

He grunted with satisfaction. The weakening of the Pure Bloods should make the life of Tarkil and Inzilbeth, of Olwina and Beleguron, of others like them easier. He had no hopes for himself and his Dark Flower. He had not transgressed the borders of propriety – he had sprinted across them and leaped beyond sight of the Pale. He squashed any thoughts of their life together in the Angle. The southern Dunedain had ripped themselves apart over the heir being the fruit of marriage between the heir and a princess of an allied, mannish people. He could not do that to his people. Especially that any honker – he smiled at the term – he sired was very unlikely to be supported out of loyalty, but out of desire for self advancement. Some good men, like Tarkil, would probably back him and Ashtuzual's son. But it was much better not to force the issue and make such good men make heart wrenching choices.

There was the question of the Gondor claim too. The Stewards – with the backing of the Great Lords of the Realm – rejected the Northern line's perfectly legal claim. With Aragorn's childless death he could not provide the southern usurpers with more ammunition for rejection. Finding the line of Isildur tainted with orc blood ... sooner pigs would fly than Gondor would accept such an "Isildur's" line on the throne. In some ways commoners had it easier ...

The final part of the letter caught his attention. It also drove home his unsuitability for the Chieftainship. Aragorn informed him that he had done a survey of the Holds, the more than a score fortified and hidden villages of the Dunedain spread across Eriador. He was aware of them and knew that this dispersion protected part of the population even if a plague devastated the Angle. Yet these settlements always slipped his mind as they did not send representatives to the Council nor did they contribute to the levee for the Ranger force. They patrolled their nearest vicinity only. He went back to the contents of the letter and his eyebrows shot up. Finally! Some sort of positive yet unexpected event! As the Holds were fortified and followed a "one year of food supply" policy the Fell Winter had not affected them much. Besides the several Holds which had been wiped out, that is. The Angle bleeding itself white over the last seventy years had allowed the Holds to prosper and to be over populated.

His nephew arranged with the Elders of the Holds that, in return for continued protection provided by the Rangers from the Angle, the holds will give up one third of their populations. These people would repopulate the Angle and re-establish several Holds as well. He looked at the number of people moving in and was impressed. He smiled at Aragorn letting him into the secret that quite a few of the Holds will be recovering their numbers by bringing in friendly Hill Men. The number of claimants of descent from the House of Haleth was likely to go through the roof! With the influx of experienced men eliminating the need to send twenty year olds into the field – and for several years at least – the future was looking quite bright.

He was not so happy with his own task for the next summer, though. In order to protect the population movements across Eriador he was to "aggressively seek out and harry, best if eliminate" orcs in Rhudaur. He groaned - not with his green boys, that was murder. To keep them alive he'd have to call in a favour from the dwarrows ...

The final note improved his humour a bit. The grumpy and stick in the mud Ranger he knew as Ears had put in a request to serve "anywhere, as long as it is with Lady Lothiriel". Maybe he will live to see pigs fly, then ...


	28. More domestic issues

Winter of 2984-85, Staddle, "The Den" at Goat Run 2

AAA-RAA-VEER!

The pitch of the screech was chosen for best penetration through earth and stone. Aravir was sure his wife could be heard on the Great East Road, if not at the Forsaken Inn or in Bree. For all its teeth searing quality the screech did not carry any urgency with it. It was an "I need you for something yet not at once" call. He left the boys in the salle with Aithon and trudged across the yard to the kitchen. Even if his Dark Flower was not there some snack was. He'd pick something up and look for her.

Ashtuzual was in the kitchen and greeted him with a smile. She was cooking something together with Tesni.

"Good that you've come. You need to talk with her" – she indicated at the girl who looked at him shyly.

"And while you're at it wash your hands and peel the spuds. You can make your paws useful while you run your mouth."

He gave her a glare which would give a raging berserker pause but got a stuck-out pink tongue in return. ( _must kiss tongue when alone flashed through his mind_ )

With a sigh he moved towards the water.

"Soap!"

He just sighed again and reached out for it.

"She's in the same position as I was three years ago" – Ashtuzual continued – "Tesni's world been turned upside down, she doesn't know what's in store for her. And considering that it was you who BOUGHT her it is you who must lay it out." – She gave a nasty twist it to the word "bought". She had been furious at Aravir for participating in the slave trade. She knew that being bought by her husband was the best thing that could had happened to the young Dunlending in the circumstances, but still she was very, very unhappy with him. It is buyers who make sellers – with no market for slaves there would be no slavers. It was finally Caradoc's description of the dump she had lived in – and the half-starved appearance of the girl's siblings in his account of the events – that made her cool down and take the situation in stride.

Tesni also had taken a week or so to calm down. In the field she had grown used to the welcome fact of not being manacled or beaten, fed as well as everybody else. This was better than she had expected of her new life. The food compensated for the harsh living conditions. Nevertheless once in the Staddle she still half expected to be bedded by the Master, while the sight of Ashtuzual left her undecided between running away and fainting on the spot – the indecision helping her do neither but shaking where she stood. Even though told the "cursed Lothiriel" story her mind told her that if it looked like an orc it was an orc. So the mistress being cruel was a given. Her green eyes looked searchingly for the whip. Although it looked like an orc it did not behave like any orc she'd heard about or seen in the village. While screaming angrily at the master in the language of the Rangers ( _were those harsh sounding words orc swearwords?_ ) the master and the boys had to clean up in the freezing water in the trough while she was given a hot bath. So she could've not been all bad, huh? But over a month in the master's house she still did not know what was to become of her. Will she stay a domestic? Will she be sold off? The mistress told her she was a free person but she'd prefer it to hear it from the master's mouth.

"Tesni. You ARE free. You can go out his door this very moment and never come back. But as likely as not you'd get enslaved by some scum. We would like to keep you with us as a fosterling until you are of age. Until you marry or until you decide to leave. In a few years we could apprentice you to a trade too. In the meantime you help with the chores around the house, maybe go out on patrols in the summer once you're fully grown."

Tesni wept out of happiness a bit, as in her culture women were expected to weep at important moments of their lives. She didn't like the part about patrols. That was unwomanly, it was for blokes to live in filth in the woods, women were to stay at home and tend the garden and care for the pigs and children.

During their conversation Aravir had peeled ten pounds of spuds. He was an excellent peeler – even the hobbits were impressed with his skill. Once put on the job he could peel forever.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

Early 2985, the Angle, cottage serving as seat of the House of Tarkil

Tarkil reverently kissed the stretchmarks on his wife's belly. She was with child again.

A few weeks ago he had mentioned, in passing, that he must come up with a device for the House of Tarkil. He saw that his words made his wife stiffen and after a moment say solemnly:

"I must give you a son."

Over the past few weeks he was unsure whether Inzilbeth's appetite for lovemaking was driven by passion and emotion – as it doubtlessly had been immediately after the family was reunited after the trial of his father – or was it brought about by her self-imposed mission. He hoped for the former, was worried it could be the later, and expected it to be a mix of both. He preferred not to ask. From his point of view there were worst fates than being son-less - Beleguron had five sons and he had caught him eyeing his gaggle of daughters with sad envy more than once.

He had figured out his device by now – his household Yavanna's favourite flower, a rose, times four, one each for his little treasures. Arranged in a tilted square. Easy to draw and highly visible – red on white. Inzi finally agreed to let their two eldest move for some time to Staddle – but only as long as Aithon was there, and conditional upon inspection and approval of the facilities and Inzi's approval of her adopted father's wife. With the baby on its way and him being on courier duty, nipping to the Staddle and showing Inzilbeth the smial before Ashtuzual left for the field was possible, with Almarian and Elwing moving in November or December. The plan was to move the major items over the summer, the girls being escorted there on horseback once their newest sister – or maybe brother – had arrived.


	29. Family is important

End of Winter, 2985 TA, The Den at Goat Run 2

Ashtuzual was struggling over Mannish familial relations and honorifics.

"So, now that I'm your wife, I have a step daughter. Three times my age?"

"Yes"

"And she has daughters my age?"

"Yes"

"Which are my grand-daughters?"

"Yes"

"And Tarkil, as he is her husband, is like my son something?"

"Son in law, yes. In some families the custom would be for him – or her, to address you as mother."

"And Tarkil, older as he is than you, still gets to call you father?"

"Yes"

"You tarks are crazy."

"Go ask a hobbit 'bout his relations ..."

()()()()()()()()()()()()

End of Winter, 2985 TA, the Angle, cottage serving as seat of the House of Tarkil

Inzilbeth was slicing horse liver. Cooking calmed her down. She was thinking - What a dolt, that husband of mine. My father has married and he tells me that a MONTH after coming home?! Distracted! Ha! A lame excuse if there was one! And he also wanted to take two of my precious daughters from me? And he told me this NOW? But the dear does look haggard. Maybe she was riding him too hard in her effort to finally give him a son? Is he still upset over Aithon? Surely he doesn't mourn that sick fuck ...

Her mind went four years back. First an orc, she-orc or orcess had appeared in her husband's tales from the Wilds. And that Aravir could not winter in the Angle as he was taking care of her. Then the orc gradually became Ashtuzual and Tarkil's expression, when speaking of her, became oddly similar to the one which he often had when speaking of their daughters. She knew he was a mush where young females were concerned and it even amused her, that he'd taken to the orcess that way too. And a note of disquiet had crept into his tales, as if he doubted if her foster-father was behaving properly towards the orc. She had looked at him incredulously at that time. Of all the things on Arda to worry about... whether Aravir and an orc ... but no, that was simply absurd. How could a man lie with an orc? Especially a man that could have any woman in the Angle. Handsome, rich, in his prime, the Heir or – once the Chieftain had children - at very least top nobility as it was understood among the Dunedain.

Yet it was true – he had saddled himself with that orc. For a moment she pondered the idea of Man and Orcs in romantic situations, drawing upon what she'd been told of that race. Then she shuddered. Thinking about it made the Mark attractive in comparison. While peeling potatoes she recalled how Tarkil dissipated her doubts as to the attractiveness of orc females, confirming that Ashtuzual in human terms was not very comely. Yet, with Ashtuzual suddenly becoming Lothiriel she was certain that something was going on. A woman simply could sense such things. Even more telling than her husband's tales were the contents of Aravir's letters.

For however mind boggling the final outcome had been, the path to it had been clear. She had re-read the letters from the last four years – the growing affection was evident once the reader knew what to look for. Also evident was Aravir's hope that they would get along. Which was endearing.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

End of Winter, 2985 TA, The Den at Goat Run 2

Aravir was pleased with the contents of the letter from the dwarrows. Groin son of Robur had taken his offer of employment for the summer. He was to bring about ten, maybe twelve dwarrows for orc hunting. Most, if not all, experienced caravan guards. As the ranger had given him leave to do so he might recruit some Men too. He now turned to the letter from Imladris. He wondered if he owned the speed of correspondence with Elrond to his nephew's misery, his letter "hitching a ride" on those beetween the Chieftain and his betrothed.

Elrond, Lord of Imladris, to Aravir of the Dunedain

I appreciate your contribution of the term „honker" to orc lore. Hideous and abhorrent as such couplings may be ( _I'll show you what's hideous and abhorrent – ruining your daughter's life for starters_ ... ), it is interesting for a loremaster to note that that separate terms are used for offspring depending on the racial mix of the parents. This points to possible existence of differences between the two, the first analogy coming to mind being hinnies and mules.

Materials in my possession make no distinction based upon the race of sire or dam, all being classified as „half orcs". I was unable, due to paucity of cross-reference material, to identify with certainty what the term „goblin men" was supposed to represent.

As to their appearance and differences versus the race of Man and orcs, the sources disagree and are far from conclusive. Sadly, most elfish materials dismiss their looks – putting it mildly – as equally unattractive as that of the race of Man. Mannish sources mention „spying by half orcs" or „treason by half-orcs", thus implying that such individuals were capable of infiltrating Mannish communities without detection of their mixed origin. Other readings do not dismiss the possibility that the authors were simply paranoid, though. A loremaster's diligence makes me assume that some individuals were capable of such feats – but there is no information as to the scale of this phenomena, i.e. whether such "mannish looking" infiltrators were the exception or the norm.

Your query makes me wonder – are you worried of some sort of ploy of the Enemy using such abominations to infiltrate the tribes of Men?

He sneered at the letter a bit, but had to admit that Elrond _had_ made an effort and passed on whatever knowledge he had. Discovering how such "abominations" looked like was an effort he had to make on his own. He felt a strong urge to unravel this mystery here and now and finished his reading for this evening.

Gnawing on Ashtuzual's ear he growled:

"Fancy something hideous and abhorrent, wife?"

_Purring_

"I've always known that the stories are true, that _tarks_ do filthy things with orc lasses ..."

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

End of Winter, 2985 TA, the Angle, cottage serving as seat of the House of Tarkil

After becoming pregnant Inzilbeth became more relaxed in their lovemaking. Still breathing heavily Tarkil held her sweaty body in his arms, running his hand over her ample rump. She had her leg draped over his and he felt the wetness of their mixed juices dripping upon his thigh and then running down, drop by drop, onto the linens. He admired the strands of strawberry blond hair of her armpits and hugged her closer. His hand caressed her soft bum cheeks, covered with an almost invisible sprinkling of golden coloured down. His hand also wandered down her thigh. The skin's smoothness was interrupted by stretch marks and patches of rougher skin which hadn't been there when they had married. Wrinkles, scars, stretch marks, rough patches, baggy eyes - all marks of the passage of time. His body also wasn't like it had been twenty or thirty years before either.

Suddenly a PFFFFFT sound came from somewhere the area of their hips and made him half expect that the blanket would float like dandelions in the wind. Inzilbeth buried her suddenly hot face between his moobs.

"Was that ... " he didn't finish his question before her shook her head vigorously, her nose rubbing against his skin as she refused to lift her head and meet his eyes. He chuckled and kissed the crown of her head. Queef or fart, what did it matter? He hugged her tighter and twisted his body to lift his right butt cheek and let rip to make his beloved feel better.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

End of Winter, 2985 TA, The Den at Goat Run 2

Elbereth, was she ugly! But the man she respected and owed a lot to loved that ... creature, so she would make herself like that ... creature.

She bent over and kissed the orcess on the cheeks in greeting. She smiled and hissed:

"You harm Aravir and I'll wring your neck."

"You hurt Honey I'll strangle you with your own tripes."

Tarkil and Aravir looked upon the women amiably making their acquaintance and smiled benevolently upon the tranquil scene.


	30. They are off!

Chapter XXX

End of Winter, 2985 TA, Staddle, The Den at Goat Run 2

During the meal Inzilbeth could not but notice the tension and fretting of the hostess. Elbereth, did she know the feeling. The uncertainty, the need to prove herself of a newly wed wife to her husband's family. She could not keep herself from the occasional giggle at her plate at the unusual reversal of roles – it was the mother in law which was the nervous young wreck and the daughter in law the judgmental matron. She felt drunk on power.

... _she is nine or ten years old_ ...

The words of Tarkil from the summer of three, four years ago ... a year after Miriel was born, with Tarkil back on patrol after courier service during her pregnancy. She almost gasped – the little chit was fifteen at most! She had been told that orc years were different from mannish years, but still – she was more than twice the age of that ... girl.

The girl in question was indeed – trying to be discrete about and failing – checking whether the food was to everybody's liking, hot or cold enough, stew slurpers and meat stickers and knives in proper supply, was there enough bread for trencher mop-up, was there drink in pitchers, was there a scowl or displeasure on the Inzi _sharlob's_ face. She was either satisfied or jeering. Now she gasped – GASP – was there something wrong with something? She wrung her hands under the table. She glanced at Aravir – the distant, not-quiet-here look assured her that HE was happy.

She also kept glancing at the woman's earrings – so the Dunedain DID do piercings! The liars! And she was the tallest women she'd ever seen – taller than all the Haladin or Big Folk Breelander women. And with the palest hair – so yellow that almost white. The orcess had seen black, various shades of brown and even reddish-like – there were orcs with brown hair, even. But never anything what Inzilbeth had. Now she was smiling at her. Was it that bad?!

Inzilbeth smiled reassuringly at the orcess, to put her at ease. Her table would have been better, naturally, but she had been running a house from times before the "Dark Flower" was born.

()()()()()()

To Inzilbeth's astonishment and the Dunedain menfolk's shame the blond beauty had very limited scope for conversation. Nobody had ever taught her Westron. She was too low class to learn it in her childhood and youth. Nor was it of any use in the Angle, there being no contact with outsiders who might not speak Sindarin. However, part of the servants in the hall where she had spent her early years were slaves taken in Dunland so – to the astonishment of both parties – she could converse on a basic level with some of Aravir's squires and the Tesni girl. Nonetheless this left her only the three Rangers to talk with. And the _hobbylta_ creature. And her "mother-in-law".

The absurdity of the situation – having a father younger than her husband, a mother less than half her age, an orcess at that – and shorter than her older pair of daughters, and whom she was now asking for something or other in elfish cracked her up. She slid to the bench at the rough hewn table and laughed until she cried.

Ashtuzual hovered over the laughing woman. She was close to tears herself – what had befallen Tarkil's wife? Had some funny mushroom slip through inspection into the stew? She finally overcame her reserve and grabbed the pale-skinned beauty's writs to check the pulse. She also could not help herself and pressed the back of hand against her forehead, checking for fever. Apparently Inzilbeth found this hysterical and laughed even harder.

She drew her into her arms and wrapped with her bosom.

"How sweet of you!"

"Why are you crying?"

"It's so funny!"

"What's?"

"Me ... you ... you young, me old, you the mother in law, me the daughter ... you and me talking Elfish ... "

The orcess was visibly relaxing and with similar opinion on the situation.

"Yes, [sound like clearing the throat] are crazy."

"The [sound like clearing the throat]?"

"Oh, t-a-r-k-s. That's ... Dunedain in my language."

After a good cry over their rotten childhoods the two became best of friends.

And made a striking pair on the streets of Bree.

()()()()()()

"This is your wedding present. A new set of small clothes – to replace the ones I gave you for your fiftieth birthday. And look at what sweet looking earrings I got for Lothi – an ideal fit with hair and complexion!"

After a week Tarkil and Inzilbeth left for the Angle, promising to bring the girls for Yuletide. Constant badgering made the blond mother to be to "consider" having her next baby in Bree allowing her newest kinswoman help with the "whelping". For some reason this lapse of tongue on the part of the orcess brought about great hilarity.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

Groin son of Robur brought him a baker's dozen of dwarrows. Eight caravan guards and five "volunteers". They came with their own pony supply train, including loads of cram for the whole party. The Ranger knew that one of the dwarrows was Gudrun daughter of Robur – through her beard he could see her scars, scars he knew intimately as he had tended to them them himself. Ashtuzual confirmed his suspicions that indeed, it was her. And two more dwarrowdams – she had smelt them. He did not wish to know which these were – it was none of his business. Neither of them acknowledged Gudrun nor the other females – they knew dwarrow customs well enough to know that this was something which simply was NOT done- on the road ALL dwarrows were men and that was that.

He had arranged with Groin for all dwarves to have metal helmets and at least hauberks - if not mail, plus shields. The Children of Mahal were armed with a mix of falchions and axes. With the tactics he had in mind the Khazad were to be a resilient holding force – the running was to be done by Man.

The six men he had picked up at the Prancing Pony looked as if by hiring them for orc hunting he was giving a major boon to the law abiding population of Eriador. The sextet was armed with clubs and knives and had dirty tunics for armour – they screamed bully boys and highwaymen at him. The sort which he had killed or hanged dozens of during his career as ranger. Maybe none of them coming back would be in the best interests of all, he pondered idly. He knew he would be glad if his loses came from them. Should he help luck in this area?

He decided to arm them with warhammers and protect with shields and gambesons. With spears they would be able to strike ABOVE the dwarrows, while the war hammers did not call for much skill but brute strength. And he did not wish to give them skills if he could avoid it. The wisdom of relying exclusively on Dunedain was yet again thrown into his face.

With the youngest lad staying in Bree with Aithon to train for next summer and with Tesni to attend to them, Aravir was left with three ranger prospects plus his wife. He decided to use them primarily as archers, with Ashtuzual doubling as a half decent scout – a "sniffer", as she termed it. They all got boiled leathers, in spite of the grumbling of the outed female component. For close-in fighting they had light falchions. The fourth part of this disparate assemble was himself and Ears. They took bows and swords. For armour they relied upon their wits, experience, and agility.

()()()()()()()()()

Seeing the train which Ears brought to Bree Aravir took his head between his hands and groaned softly. The instruction had been "buy three pack horses". He brought five, all looking like knacker yard rejects. "I stretched the money to get four, and got one for free!" – Ears chirped as way of explanation.

"But will they make it to the Troll Shaws?"

The older ranger shrugged – "one certainly won't make it, but that's not a problem. We'd had eaten the supplies off it anyway, so we get horse stew as a bonus. We'd have supplies for three horses very soon after getting to the mountains, so if get three horses to the 'Shaws no problem at all. We'll simple eat one sooner than expected and get to carry those supplies on our backs a bit. And look – those three look great! I bet they'd even make it over the mountains! Not to Laketown, of course, let's not get carried away" – Ears concluded his sales pitch with a chuckle. "Here's the list of stores for you to read ..."


	31. The Lay of Rhudaur

AN: for details of Geography and history of the Kingdom of Rhudaur I am indebted to Ianeth and his excellent work, the "Son of Rhudaur" at the Henneth Annum site, which I sincerely recommend.

They set out during the mud season. They pushed due east along the Great East Road. Aravir planned to go off the road at the Trollshaws and seek out a large cave that Bilbo had told him about. He intended to take about a week of rest there, kill and eat one or two horses, make last minute repairs to weapons and armour.

His more pressing concern however was Ashtuzual's acceptance by his "army". Part of the dwarves knew the truth after all, and not the "elven curse" story. But "Lady Lothiriel" smoothly intercepted her acquaintances and while head butting them in greeting quickly and quietly explained the ruse. The Children of Mahal did not bat an eyelid under their bushy eyebrows, accustomed as they were to all sorts of "all dwarrows on the road are male" ploys. Ashtuzual's and his smooth acceptance of Gudrun becoming Guntram also helped things, he hoped

The younglings were the least of his problems. They had been "brought up" on the Lie, so to speak. For them the Lord's wife looked like an orc because the "fey elves" had cursed her and that was that. Any doubts or misgivings they might have had were erased by almost half a year of living in the same smial, where they've never seen her play with still steaming entrails or ripping puppies apart or doing other things "orcs do". To them she was a "poor thing, looking like that" and "damn those elves".

The bandits, temporarily in "defenders of Eriador" guise, had been forewarned about the "Shorty's cursed wife". Their muttering of "that's a fucking orc" amongst themselves did not surprise the blue eyed ranger, as it was only natural. Yet he could only nod to Ear's sarcastic comment later:

"I wonder how do they know how an orc looks like"?

The elder ranger also queried him on an issue which evidently bothered him.

"You really are married?"

Isildur's ex-heir sighed. By the looks of it he better prepare leaflets and hand out.

"Yes. I love her, she loves me, end of discussion."

"But ... "

"End of discussion."

Ear managed to put in another question.

"I know, Ear, that it is dangerous. That either she or I can die. And if she was one of our girls, from the Angle or the Holds, I wouldn't have taken her along. But she was brought up differently and is fully capable of patrolling. As you yourself very well know."

"I worry but I trust her to try to survive combat, just like we all do. And this is the last season before we have children. That'll tie her down in Staddle. How can we throw away over half a year of being together if we only have twenty years – or maybe less – of being together to look for?"

He could see by Ear's stunned expression that this was not an aspect the older man had taken into consideration. To the contrary, at his age, only ninety five, if he married some fifty or sixty year old widow, he probably would have children and see them grow to maturity. Ear was Numenorean blood enough for that.

"We are even worse off than all those pairs of Dunedain with Middle Men wives, like Tarkil and Inzilbeth." Aravir continued.

"As far as we know she may die of old age at 35. Probably at forty or forty five. Lothiriel seeing fifty summers – that would be a gift from Eru Himself. We can only pray to the Valar to make our time together the longest possible."

"I've come to admire Arven and the other elleth before her who chose Edain as mates. I now have some inkling of what their choice implies." – his eyes sought out the slim silhouette among the rectangular like bodies of marching dwarrows.

"Elrond is still a bellend, though. " – He added with suppressed dislike.

They found the cave with some difficulty. Had it not been for the stone trolls they would have missed it. Some of the dwarrows knew about the place from song – apparently the expedition to reclaim Erebor from the drake Smaug had passed through this place. Aravir and Ashtuzual smiled at that – Bilbo had told them all the details. They did not like the looks of appreciation given to the cave by the "defenders of Eriador", however.

Using their numbers they smoked out the cave – killing off the bugs – and then dried it out. Slaughtering the two weakest horses gave them meat for several days, although some hunting and trapping was done anyway.

They moved due north from the Trollshaws until they reach a substantial river. The rangers said it was the White River. They forded it with difficulty and moved down its course westwards, towards the Hoarwell. At the confluence of the two they made camp. Ruins of a Numenorean castle and a city next to it were visible. To everybody's surprise Ear began a tale.

"The ruins you see here are one of the castles of the Kingdom of Rhudaur. This was the major town of the north, the Carag Graw, upon the routes connecting the hills",

He gestured to the east, where a line of hills was visible, a tableland of intermediate stature between their location and the lofty peaks of the Misty Mountains behind.

He now waved his hand along the river:

"The fair and fertile valley of the Hoarwell, or Mitheithel in Sindarin."

And then gestured westwards,

"The fields and pastures of the lowlands reached from here all the way to the Weather Hills and North Downs. The richest lands of the kingdom. I guess there must have been a bridge here. Destroyed in the war. "

Pointing back east,

"You've noticed, while we've travelled down the river, various small ruins and remnants of a road?"

There were grunts of support, chiefly from the dwarrow contingent.

"That was the road leading to lands of the vassal Haladin clans. "

This made the heads of some of the "defenders of Eriador" perk up, and elicited a measure of interest from the two Dunlanders.

"The Numenoreans, the Dunedain of Rhudaur were few and ruled over the Haladin. Over some directly, like lords over bondsmen, while other Haladim were allied, their clans being the King's vassals."

"And it was the civil war between the Dunedain and the Haladin which destroyed Rhudaur. Some songs place the blame on the greed and stupidly of the Kings at Iant Methen, other – on the treachery of the Hill Men, and yet other - on the intrigues and malevolent influence of the Witch King. "

His keen Ranger senses caught mutters of:

" _Always us gets blamed_ ... "

"" _ow does 'e ken all that?_ "

"Peace, peace" – Ear appealed to his rapt audience. "It was a civil war, an awful thing. And not only the Dunedain have shown inclinations towards kinstrife, but Haladin clans and family have a history of blood feuds. To that add the power of the Witch King, beyond that of mere mortals, and you have a kettle about to explode. So I would say that all three reasons are to blame for the war."

The Middle Men and Dunedain for once agreed on the weaknesses of their kindereds.

Ear returned to the tale.

"As to how I know of these events of one and a half thousand years ago. My family hailed from here, from Rhudaur. Sixteen times the oldest son took this collar" – he pointed to his neck – "off the cold body of his father and put on his own."

The Children of Aule immediately demanded to have a look as to appraise the workmanship of something of such antiquity. Ear refused to pass along his heirloom, but allowed close examination on his person in the light of the setting sun.

"This not Dunedain work nor elvish work. Nor ours" – Ragnar son of Ulrik, the self proclaimed expert proclaimed.

The Dunedain gave a sad half-smile.

"Indeed".

"It was the dowry of one of my foremothers. A Haladin chieftain's daughter. Had it not been for her, for this collar, my line would not exist."

His voice became grim.

"Terrible times, these were. After years of war agaisnt Angmar, the Kingdom north of the Trollshwas had been lost, the capital - Iant Methen looted. There was little trust left between the Dunedain and the Haladin of the Hills. But yet another joint campaign was to be waged, with the clans on the King's demand supplying one hundred hostages to prove their goodwill – fifty sons and fifty daughters of chieftains, between ten and sixteen years of age. Harsh terms but the Haladin – on the verge from starvation from paying tribute both to Angmar and to the King at Iant Methen - agreed.

But the Witch Kings magiks allowed orcs and trolls to brave the snows of winter and besiege the chieftains in their holds. Come spring no Haladin warriors arrived for the Muster, trapped in their holds as they were. The King, enraged, ordered the girls dishonoured and the boys unmanned ( _det means they wuz raped or 'ad their balls snitched orf, you brick head!_ )– and then all drowned in the Hoarwell with a stone tied to their neck. At that the Witch King recalled his orcs and other fell creatures - they were no longer needed. The Haladin descended on the remnants of Rhudaur and did not leave a stone standing, nor any beast of burden alive, or any Dunedain living. Oh, red ran the Hoarwell and the Loudwater that year! Great was the fury of the Childless Chieftains of the Haladin. My forefather, sixteen times my sire, was spared as kinsmen of the Haladim. The survivors – my forefather included – fled for Cordolan. Terrible was the wrath of the Hill Men – this was the end of the first of the Kingdoms in Exile."

The rest of the evening passed in a grim and quiet atmosphere, with all races and tribes pondering the cruelty of kin strife and the poison of hatred which the Enemy could seep into kindred souls.


	32. Fun at the Ford - Glorfindel rulz - girl talk

 

**Adventurous readers may google for the Encyclopaedia of Arda site and – once there – use the local search engine for Rhudaur.**

**Glyphweb arda / r / rhudaur . html – several unnecessary spaces in the address.**

**Regardless of how the bold reader gets to the Rhudaur entry, Forn Athrad is above the 2** **nd** **"R" in Rhudaur on the map, while Carag Graw is underneath the 1** **st** **"A" in the kingdom's name. Both locations on the River Mitheithel, naturally.**

2985, Upper Hoarwell Valley – early spring

After camping at the ruins of Carag Graw the Company marched north east, keeping to the eastern bank of the Hoarwell. Here the remnants of a road were even more visible than along the White River. After three days they reached another mound of crumbling stones. According to Ear these were the remnants of Northford or Forn Athrad.

He took sight seeing volunteers – eager for another tale - to the ruins of the castle which was, not surprisingly, the highest spot in the area. He showed them a breath taking view – to the East the wall of the Misty Mountains, gradually disappearing in a haze to the south. To the north of them, a much closer wall of stone, mountains not much lower than the Misty Mountains range. This wall blocked the whole northern sky. Only to the west and south west was there any low and level ground visible.

"These are the Etten Moors" – Ear explained, gesturing towards the north.

"Rhudaur ended somewhere in their southern foothills, a bare week or so over awful terrain from here. Behind this mountain range lies Angmar, the land ruled by the Witch King. Here was the land of Men, he said gesturing around him, of whatever type they may have been. But beyond the mountains was the land of the orc, where Evil Men and Sorcerers wielded the orc like a whip to keep all in line – to enslave Hill Men, fell beast and other orcs and make them do his biding. Like in Mordor. Aye, the Witch King's most powerful weapon was not the stunted and lowly orc – it were the tall standing and proud men of Westernesse, those who took the path of sorcery, those who praised not Eru but Melkor and his servant Sauron – the Black Numenoreans."

Although speaking in Common Ear began to pronounce the "r" in names in the manner of the Elves, harshly, making it jarring for the ears.

Ang-maRR, MoRR-doRR, Mel-koRR, Sau-RRon – the very sound of these words inspired unease and wariness. The listeners shivered, feeling their blood chill. When standing atop the ruins and pointing out the features of the terrain and explaining what lay beyond, the scarred Ranger – in his usually overlooked bronze and silver collar – looked as if the blood of Numenor had regained its glory in his veins. Or maybe it was the blood of the nameless Daughter of the Haladin, the Human masters of these mountains. Or it was the mix of both made him look like a Lord of the Craigs. Somehow this vision restored warmth to the veins of Man and Dwarrow and Orcess alike.

"And it was in the Etten Moors that the Witch King was last seen" – the Ranger continued. "After his defeat at Fornost at the hands of the Gondorians he fled back to his lairs in the Misty Mountains, to Carn Dum. But that was not to be."

"Guided by Foresight – be it of the Lord Elrond or of the Balrog Slayer himself, an elven host rode out of Rivendell. Crossing this very ford they made haste to Angmar itself and passed around the Ettern Moors. There the Elves barred passage to the Witch King's citadel, forcing him to flee not to the north-east, but to the south-east. And there, on the northern slopes of the mountain we are looking at from the south, Gondorian cavalry and the Elves under Glorfindel the Bloody Spear slew the remainder of Angmar's forces. With only the Witch King remaining in flight, Glorfindel grabbed his fell gore-dripping spear, named Nastodhel – the Deep Thruster – in both hands and raised above his head, signalling the end of pursuit, saying – "it is not his fate to fall this day, nor to fall to any man born."

The company was silent, thinking of the Ranger's words. The members quietly dispersed to their duties.

_"Wut did da elf mean by det?"_

_"Dey sez not to ask an elf a question, cause after dey answers ya yer's stupider tan yu wuz before ye asked."_

_"Fey folk, dey iz!"_

The river was ice cold and fast, high with melt water, yet fordable. This nicely pointed out the importance of this place. The Rangers explained that downriver the next place where it was possible to cross the Hoarwell without a boat or some sort of raft was the Last Bridge. The vicinity of the bridge was often patrolled by Rangers and the Elves of Rivendell. Additionally the raiders ran the risk of running into a dwarrow or mannish caravan. To the north of them the country steadily became ever more rugged. Hence, all orc or Haladin raids originating from the Misty Mountains between the High Pass and the Etten Moors had to pass through this ford.

The company set up camp on the west bank at a distance outside orc sniffing range. When the wind was right Ashtuzual was placed on the river bank and told to sniff while a group of men and dwarrows – handpicked for poor hygiene – moved away. The camp was laid out next to a stream and sections for drawing water, bathing, washing clothes, for washing ponies and for shitting were established, with severe punishment for "missuse".

Once the snow disappeared and the brown grasses began sprouting green shoots, orcs and Haladin – although mostly the former, began appearing at the ford. They let them pass – the orcs usually passed at night, anyway – and caught them at their first camp. A few times, when the band was Haladin or mixed – they intercepted them at the crossing in daylight. The dwarves and "defenders" blocked the exit from the water, while the younglings and Rangers picked off the further ranks with bows. The archers also kept anybody from escaping the ambush. Here the sluggish movements in the rapid flowing water helped the archers by giving them more time to shoot at their targets. The river took care of the bodies. The company did not take any losses but small wounds – cuts, nicks and bruises - kept accumulating.

Their luck lasted about month. Somehow they had been observed, smelled or a survivor escaped. Two or three groups must had joined forces and after crossing the river went directly for them. The mob was way too large for the scouts to stop and – holding to scent – proved immune to diversion from their track and kept on course for the camp. This made for a confusing moonlight battle. They were saved by Groin herding ponies - with nicked skin and thus bleeding – into the fray. The presence of fresh meat under their noses did away with any semblance of discipline the orcs still had. The equines - biting and kicking for their lives - occupied the score or so of the hungriest orcs, giving Aravir's company a momentary respite from overwhelming numbers. This turned the tide.

This skirmish cost them dearly – the Dunlending youth Bledyn, leaving only Rhys alive, one dwarf dead and two heavily wounded, and two "defenders" – one was killed in the fighting and the other pronounced beyond healing and mercy-killed by Aravir.

They moved camp downstream to half a day's march from the ford. Nine of them, the ones who were almost unscratched stayed at the ford, while the wounded or battered recovered. And then it rained. The only positive thing was having lots of pony meat for the first few days. The probably helped the dwarrows pull through their wounds.

Ashtuzual and "Guntram" were keeping an eye the ford. They had a full night watch ahead of them and talked softly to stay awake. Two days ago a large group, too large to face openly, had passed the ford and the nine had followed them, the intention being to pick off small groups or individuals, and to strike when the odds were better. The recovered and recovering wounded kept an eye on the ford.

"Lothiriel, can I ask 'bout you and Shorty."

"Anything, Guntram."

"Could be ... intimate."

"I was fucked bloody in front of you in all sorts of ways – what's left for me to be embarrassed about?"

"After all that how ... how ... can you be with him? With a man?"

"Took years. Two years or so, every time Shorty or Honey raised their hand or voice I expected to be beaten or fucked. First year was worst. Whenever I did something wrong, spoke what I thought I shouldn't, or something like that, I expected a fist or kick or brutal shaking or rape. You know how orcs are. Yet the two of them never touched me in anger, though. Just yelled or hissed a bit. Or called names. But I've heard much worse before".

The orcess grinned.

"And with other _tarks_ not carrying to pee on my shadow – we were always together, the three of us. I stopped being afraid of them. I started feeling protected. I knew they protected me from other _tarks_. After two years or so I started to feel safe. I began to like to be touched. Not like _that_ and not _there_ but simply touched. Patted. Held. Hugged."

"Being around the hobbits – also helped. One, the bloke looked as dangerous like a new born kitty, two – the way they pawed at one another ... you could see that she liked it. So there must've be more for the girl than just pain."

"Still" – she smiled – "our first time, over a year ago, did not work at all. We both wished it but neither could."

"What was _his_ problem?"

"I am the size of a ten year old girl of the race of Man. He has – or had – problems with NOT thinking about me like that. Freaked him out it did – that I was a girl of non beddable age and he some monster. And he was afraid of harming me, thinking that he'd be too big for me. Meh! Men see a longsword where there's a dagger ... _snicker_. But eventually we overcame our fears."

After some time listening to the murmur of the river over the stones of the ford the dwarf maiden finally spoke.

"I still can't get over it. When a male looks at me I cringe – I imagine that he is thinking of taking me and hurting me. I don't get that feeling when they don't know, when I'm dressed as a man. But back at the hold I'm expected to dress as a dwarrowdam should. At the Settlement it was only family, so it was not that bad. But at the hold I keep to my room, run along the walls on my errands and throw up from nerves later. Or I put on trews and get a mighty telling to for it later. So I keep to the road as much as I can. Groin's job helps with this. This job is like Mahal's gift! I'm in pants, I kill orcs and get paid for all that too! But then it is back to the Hold for the winter. Do you think that Straddle of yours could live with a dwarrow blacksmith or something?"

"It's Staddle, not Straddle. If there's not enough work for you, you can still stay with us. There is some metal work to do, and we take part of our custom to dwarrows anyway. And Shorty would love to have train the younglings - and to keep the weapons sharp."


	33. Vigilance on the Hoarwel

2985, Upper Hoarwell Valley

"Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck ... " – Ashtuzual whispered to herself, her heart in her throat with terror. She was running as fast as she could to their camp, discarding part of her gear to lighten her load.

THEY were coming! Those she had dreaded all those years. All her childhood nightmares were coming back and making rational thought difficult.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck ... " she repeated while running under the stars, like her ancestors at Cuivienen had.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

"Who are ye and whadayawant?!" – "Guntram" challenged the horsemen. She crouched behind a wall of her and Ashtuzual's backpacks, fearing that the squirrel shredders might shoot at the direction of her voice. She had to draw out this the longest possible, giving her friend a chance to escape. Ashtuzual had something to live for, not like her. Mahal had made the Dwarrows to endure and endure she will!

"Who are ye?!" she repeated towards the drawn swords and nocked arrows. A dozen elves or more. She was fucked.

Glorfindel nudged his trusted mare towards the source of the voice.

"Show yourself!" – the Balrog Slayer demanded, pointing Nastodhel in the direction of the voice. Not that he had any doubt where the creature was – its loud breathing made it possible to shoot it in the dark.

"I asked first!"

"There are more of us and we can shoot you!"

"Fair enough – you won't shoot if I show myself?"

"No! Come out!"

Meanwhile the rest of the elven troop had exited the water and was arranging itself partly behind its leader, and partly heading away from the water.

The reborn's eyes now got a good look at the creature challenging them. A _Naugrim,_ almost for sure. Even in front of dark bushes he could discern the stout built of Aule's children. Too short for a Man, too broad for Orc. He sniffed the air. Many scents assailed his keen elven senses – smells of Man, Dwarf, Orc, Wolf – both old and new. One scent was disquieting.

"So who are ye then?" – The painfully repetitive creature continued its nagging like questioning.

The Elf Lord kept his Deep Thurster up to appear less menacing.

"Elves, as you can see. Elves of Rivendell. So what's your name then?"

Had they been in a dwarrow Hold she'd had shown him his manners. One just did not ask a maiden her name. Introductions were needed, especially if the male was a bachelor.

"Guntram son of Robur. And the head maiden of you bunch of bints is called what?!"

Glorfindel snorted with annoyance. The cheek of the stinking distorted creature! His keen elven nose caught that scent again. Yet the mixture of scents in this place, old and new, was baffling.

"I am Lord Glorfindel, dwarf. It is not wise to offer insult in your situation."

"I was being polite, elf. With no beards you all look like girls' whose beards haven't come in yet!"

It was a compliment on your youthful complexion, a fleeting voice whispered in the Balrog Slayer's mind. He slid the Deep Thruster into the snug fit of its saddle-side holster and dismounted. He barked to the rest of the elves to stay mounted and to keep an eye out.

He dismounted gracefully and approached the _Naugrim._ At several paces the rising riverbank put them at eye level.

"Who are you and WHAT are you doing here? Speak or be remade in a hedgehog's image".

Good, she bought the orcess a minute or two already. She knew that these were elves and she knew well that these were allies, of sorts. Or not openly hostile. But she wanted to buy the orcess maximum time possible to escape.

"I am part of a company led by Rangers Ear and Shorty. Have been fighting orc and Hill Men at this ford for the last couple of weeks. Are you that elf who fought the Witch King?"

His eyes opened a bit – his fame reached the _Naugrim_?

"Yes, it was me. Why do you ask?"

"Curious. Heard a story 'bout it just a while ago. Did you really cross this ford then?"

"Yes. But ... " He was interrupted by the dwarf.

"What did you mean with the prophecy? That it won't be a man born? Will it be a dwarf that will do in the git?"

"It means what you take it to mean and will reveal itself to you in its own time." He explained gently, as if to a child, still feeling warmth from recognition, even amongst the ugly ones.

 _Stupider than before asking –_ his keen elven ears caught the dwarf's muttering.

They had been fighting orcs and Hill Men - that could explain the scent of fresh dwarrow blood he could sense from the stunted one. Silly creature must be wounded.

"Tell me where is Shorty, for I much desire to speak with him".

"He's following a larger band, culling them down before striking. The rest keeps an eye on the ford. You can follow their track – wide as a road."

So far so good – his dismounting got her worried but apparently the elf wanted only to talk. The elves gave no signs of going after Ashtuzual either. She began to relax. But the elve's next words made her jump.

"You are bleeding. Our healer will take a look at you and re-dress your wounds."

He saw the dwarf literally jump up in place.

"I am NOT wounded! Stop bugging me and go after Shorty!"

He could hear the dwarrow's already loud breathing get even heavier and much faster. It seemed agitated for some reason!

He reached out his hand and only his keen elven reflex saved his fingers from being slashed off. Behind him he heard his men draw weapons again. The dwarf was now positively panting in agitation, yet managed to utter through clenched teeth.

"I. Am. Not. Wounded. Elf."

Such a prideful creature. Just like those which had passed through Imladris ten years ago. Or was it fifty? Never mind. He sniffed again – there _was_ blood.

He signalled to his men to stand down. Keeping his hands to himself he repeated.

"My. elven. nose. smells. blood. you. are. wounded. and. bleeding. dwarf."

This got the _Naugrim_ distressed, although it did not wave its cleaver about, just kept it between the two of them.

" "I. Am. FINE. I. Am Not. Wounded. Go. Away. Elf." – there was a note of hysteria to this.

Glorfindel's eyes flashed with comprehension. He had come across one of the dwarves' best kept secrets in the flesh. He bowed and spoke in Khuzdul.

"I will take my leave then, Lady."

He noted with satisfaction that the dwarrowdam almost swooned to his feet. He backed up, turned, flipped his hair over his shoulder and mounted his steed.

Gudrun plunked on her bottom and and slumped her back. She watched the elves ride off, barely registering what was going on. The emotions had almost got the better of her - she was exhausted.

But she was alive, Ashtuzual was safe, and the elf had not tried to rape her.

()()()()()()()()()()

Once the surge of outgoing raiders had ended Aravir decided he could spare some men and get the wounded out of the Lone Lands. He could make good use of the window between outgoing and homebound raids.

He divided the easily carried loot between the defenders, his younglings and the dwarrows. The dwarrows gathered up part of the remainder and hid, in the hopes of coming back for it later. His wife was included in loot sharing – she had told him at some of her torment during the first orc hunting stint. He observed, amused, that her taste in "shiny things" had improved in meantime. In his eyes at least.

Some of the dwarrow ponies survived the "sacrificial charge" Groin had put them to. Two of the "five for the price of three" horses were still alive and – to everybody's surprise – looked better than four months ago in Bree. And this on a diet mostly of grass, raising questions about their previous handling. They packed up and went south. They followed the west bank which was flatter and had fewer tributaries than the hillier eastern bank. The tributaries, few as they were, still gave them plenty of waters as the Hoarwell ran in a steep walled canyon, inaccessible for leagues at end.

They were headed for the Last Bridge where the blue eyed ranger and Gurben hoped to find some sort of camp, with "real" healers. Not that Li'lle Liver wasn't one, but she had never been properly trained as an army healer. Not to mention her midwifery skills being wasted in the current circumstance. She had discretely sniffed at all three dwarrowdams and none was in danger of needing her services in that respect.

None of the missives he had read before setting out from Bree that told Aravir about any planned camp at the Last Bridge, but he judged the presence of one to be inevitable. It was the easiest and fastest route to lead the resettled Dunedain to the Angle.

He hoped to find some rest there and leave the heavy wounded dwarrows there.


	34. Story progresses at glacial pace

2985, Upper Hoarwell Valley, Ettenmoors

Aravir and Gurben had been correct in expecting a major Ranger force around the Bridge. As much as Aravir would have liked to camp under the protection of others, he feared to get too near – he did not want any "orc sighting" incidents. Especially as – according to Glorfindel – elves were to be there too. Seeing his wife wild eyed a day after smelling the elves at Forn Athrad was enough for him – he prefered to spare his wife such excitement. Especially as she had greatly endangered her cover story.

()()()()()()()

**two weeks earlier**

"Rangers ahoy!" came a soft cry in Sindarin from behind their backs. This startled the nine - the mixed bunch of rangers, dwarrows, Men.

"Rangers ahoy!" – the Rangers now had no doubt that the sound came from perfectly formed Elven lips.

"Over here!" – Gurben replied.

After a few moments a tall, long haired figure stepped out from the darkness with the grace of an immortal.

"You must be Shorty and Ear. The foul month guard of yours at the Forn Athrad told me where to find you. Although we could follow the trail of this band with our eyes closed."

Aravir wondered at the use of the singular – orders were to keep a double watch, so that there always was a runner available to warn the camp.

"Foul mouthed guard?"

"Yes, one of the _Naugrim_ – proud like Feanor himself!" the ageless Balrog Slayer chuckled. "Now tell me what how many orcs are here to kill?"

With the elven cavalry to help - or rather to be helped by Aravir's company - massacring the war band was quick and bloody. In open ground the orcs did not stand chance against Glorfindel's veterans. Immediately after the clash they parted ways – the elves heading north, to catch outgoing raiders.

Curious, Ear asked the mounted Reborn:

"Not too late for this? Had you gone up north a fortnight or three weeks ago ... "

"We were snowed in" – the elven lord replied.

"Elves may walk lighter on snow than other races, but our horses do not. That kept us, angry over the delay, so long in Imladris".

Looking around he grunted with satisfaction,

"There he is, your _naugrim_ lieutenant."

_sound of hoofbeats_

"Master Groin, son of Robur, I presume?"

"At your service and your family's" the slightly surprised dwarrow replied.

"I have to compliment you on your snarky _wink_ brother's vigilance at the Ford. Tongue lashed me like an old shrew _wink. "_

The elf lord flipped his waist length cascade of molten gold over his shoulder and smiled lewdly at the dwarrow.

"Namaire, mellon nin!" he cried, and set off at a fast pace.

The astonished dwarrow leader was torn between taking after the elf and demanding an interracial hand fasting here and now and running to the ford to check on his sister's safety. He chose the easier option and ran to Aravir.

"He knows about Guntram ... how ... " he spluttered.

"How?" he repeated

The equally astonished Aravir spread his arms and shook his had in a gesture of surrender.

"Among the elves Lord Glorfindel is known as the "dirty old coot", so considering his age maybe he knows things about women we younglings have not even dreamed about ... "

If this was to quieten the dwarf it failed spectacularly.

"We are going back" - Groin snarled and turned towards the camp.

"Fall back to camp! Double march!" – Aravir bellowed and fell in step behind the dwarf. He knew a lost causes when he saw one - Groin was on his way to camp and that was that.

Groin brooded. His dark thoughts always revolved around his sister. She had refused to talk about her time with the orcs, limiting her account to "bad things happened". What little he knew came from overheard snippets and allusions from the other girls and the Rangers. For some reason he could not bring himself to ask Ashtuzual about it. Although he expected her to stonewall him too. But after a moment his shoulders slumped – he once again failed his sister. On the march back he brooded over his failure as a dwarrow in general and a brother in particular.

()()()()()()()()()()

" ... and she ran into the camp wild eyed, breathless, as if she had wargs on her heels. A good thing she could barely speak and barely could force out a squeak out of her, and that she ran into me, not somebody else, gasping - " _golug-hai, golug-hai_ ". I know the elves are unsettling folks, especially to those cursed _wink_ by them, but babbling in orcish is ... undesirable." The dwarf concluded solemnly.

"I agree, Faram. Close call. Where is she?"

"Still sleeping the fright and the run off. Crawled off almost on her fours for a pee two hours ago but last I've seen her she was snoring next to Guntram."

The old dwarf shook his head.

"That one is another unsettled by the elves. Fey folk they must be. The lads that went to relieve him from watch found him sitting in the bushes, shivering and with teeth doing the forge hammer dance. Pulled a knife at the lads before he knew what he was doing." Faram shuddered.

"Elves" and spat over his arm as a ward against the bad Eye.

()()()()()()()()()()()

**three weeks later**

Leaving the two heaviest wounded dwarrow with the mixed Ranger and Imladris force at the Last Bridge Aravir's company marched north to harras the mountain orc and lay in wait for raiders returning from western Eriador.

On the way, in April sunshine, Guntram and Lothiriel chatted about life.

"It is outright scandalous to marry before forty, although not unheard of. Almost always there is a pregnancy involved. The tradition is for the groom to show up bruised at the ceremony. _giggle_ Marriages before sixty-five are also infrequent as they are very much frowned upon. Sixty five is an age by which a dwarrow - of either sex - should finish one full apprenticeship, becoming a master – that's fourteen years - and half of another apprenticeship, gaining journeyman level – seven years. Girls can cheat and have journeyman status in three trades, one being Homemaking."

"That's a trade?! "

"Aye, and a very serious one too. Besides cleaning, cooking, sewing, embroidery, making preserves, mushroom lore, baby and child care, hygiene, getting stains out of various fabrics, the list is endless! "

Ashtuzual first thought of ten year old orc "housewives" – or fifteen year old manling ones Tesni had told her about - and wondered what the Dwarrows would say to that. Then she imagined classes in "kissing the hurts away" as she'd seen hobbitess and mannish women doing and started to giggle like crazy.

After she explained her merriment Gudrun did not seem to share it. She was not amused.

"You said fourteen years for master, and seven for a journeyman; that'd be twenty-one years. What's the four years for?"

Here Gudrun smiled.

"For mistakes. In theory it is to start learning a third trade or to progress in the second one, but the truth is that it is for mistakes. For wasting a year or two on the trade that's wrong for you. Or on travel to a hold with a master in a trade that is not available at your place."

"So, dwarrow are expected to marry when the past sixty-five?"

"No, not so fast. Not immediately." Gudrun explained.

"They can, but not immediately. A dwarrow often wishes to master a second or third trade, or become journeyman in yet others. A dwarrow may set up shop, or simply work and begin to make a name in her or his trade. Although not as discouraged as under sixty-five marriages, those under eighty are simply NOT encouraged. A proper age to wed is between eighty and 120. Above 130 or so you acquire a reputation - regardless if deserved or not - for being Craft-struck, for being a dwarrow so centred on his or her craft that they have no interest in ever having a family, or being some sort of twisted bachelor or a shrewish old maid. And then after 150 or so it is simply improper to become married, as you will not see your children settled down. "

Ashtuzual mulled this over and gasped.

"How old can dwarrodams be and bear children?"

"They say it gets risky around one hundred and eighty."

The orcess filed that information away.

"So what are your trades?"

"I'm a cheater. I'm journeyman in House making – it's hard to find a girl which did not learn that one as her first. Then – to help da and my uncles, as Groin had run off – I learnt working with Bog Ore. Then a sweets baker – Faram's Ma, she's very old, learnt that trade at Erebor. Not much work in that line, but I love sweets. After the raid I apprenticed myself to Groin, as caravan guard. Similar to soldier, but no fancy weapons and more pony and mule lore."


	35. Newly weds do Things together

2985, western foothills of Ettenmoors, autumn

The first frosts had come while Aravir's company was still in the field. By now it had lost another dwarrow and defender. It had also lost its lustre and looked like a bunch of bandits. Torn and patched clothing, or rags torn off orc corpses were the norm, not the exception. A closer look would also find some peek-a-boo toes or a flash of mud coated heel. Only dwarrow boots – if properly protected against rust – stood the test of wear and tear.

Although elated at the success of their latest exploits the company was not only dead tired, but loaded down with loot and encumbered with freed ex-captives. It was time to go home.

For Aravir it was also a time for a conscience-weighting decision.

"I am not sure if we can play Eru or Vaire. Or Mandos. We have no evidence for their past crimes – even if their whole being screams "bandit" to us. And what if they turn over a new leaf after coming back?" – the older Ranger asked him.

()()()()

"They are like those fucks that ran with the orc slavers. They are bad men. They look at me and think of giving me a fuck. A girl feels such things. That's not normal. Normal men look at me and fancy a barf, not a tumble. They are all sorts of twisted." Ashtuzual declared with finality in her voice.

The heir of Isildur mulled over what his wife had just told him.

"What does that make me then?"

She drew him closer and a whispered:

"Pervert" was the last thing he heard before a hot tongue was forced in his ear.

Once they had finished their tongue battle Lothiriel said.

"Killing them is a very orky decision. You'd make a good den boss."

Aravir winced. Such endorsement was not what he wanted to hear.

()()()()

Aravir and Ashtuzual and the three remaining defenders went out on patrol to scout out the suspected approaches to an orc den. Four days later only a blood splattered Ranger and orcess returned, saying that they had run into an ambush.

Nobody commented, only Groin drew the Dunedan aside.

"You did the right thing, Master ranger" – the dwarf said.

"They were bandits and each deserved the noose ten times over. If you gave them a quick, clean death it was just reward for their good deeds this year. The roads will be mite safer thanks to you. Better to hang one innocent than to let nine guilty ones go – they'll hurt tens of innocents before they're caught again". He clapped him on the shoulder and went back to his roast rabbit; everybody had had enough of stew by this point. He left Aravir pondering dwarrow wisdom.

Two days later they started their crawl south.

()()()()()()()()()()

Yuletide, 2985

Lord Aravir and Lady Lothiriel

I wish the letter finds You Both in Good Health. The happiness you share and which I observed during this summer campaign made me look upon life in different light. Your example made me decide to live whatever life is left to me in almost meaningful manner possible. I have decided to leave the service and marry.

I spoke with my son Dinendaer about my marital plans. Sadly I got no further then mentioning marrying again. He was not supportive of the idea but came down on me like a drake of old accusing me of being a dirty old man and of dribbling semen out of my ears. As you can imagine our conversation became angry and spiteful.

The next day I proposed to Tygil Irongrip and to my joy I was accepted. Having known one another for fifty years and both being widowers and good friends we dispensed with courtship and will be wed in three weeks time. Once we are wed I will move in with her and will assist in training youth in the District. Please pass on my greetings to young Caradoc and Rhys and Guntram Robursson if indeed he decided to set up shop in Staddle.

Your humble servant and Lady Lothiriel's admirer

Gurben son of Ravomen

()()()()()()()()()()

January 2986, Breeland. Staddle, street in front of Goat Run 2

The Small Folk midwife leaving the smial looked at Aravir with disgust and fury and poked him painfully in the solar plexus with her brolly. Passing him, bent over and gasping, she hissed "monster" and smashed his calf with her murderous hobbit heel. Hopping on one leg he chased her down the Goat Run.

"Mistress Busybody! Mistress Busybody! Please wait! Let's talk!"

She reluctantly stopped and turned to face him. She eyed him as if he was dogshit she stepped in and got into her foothair.

"Monster" – she repeated "What had you been doing to her? You ... you ... tortured her! She's scared outside and inside!"

Aravir was red-faced, not sure what she was talking about, but very much wishing to keep it private. Whatever it was.

"Please, come in. Let us talk. I'll make tea ... "

Goodwife Edelweiss Busybody was holding her brolly up, parallel to the ground, like a charging rider holds his spear, aimed at his crotch.

"And once I'm in your smial you're going to mutilate me like you did your poor wife?"

The blue eyed ranger was beginning to grasp what this was about.

"Please come inside. A ... Lothiriel didn't explain ... " he tried to ask.

"Of course not!" the midwife exploded. "What woman wants to admit that her _loving husband"_ – she spat out the word – "practices tenderising meat on her. She is ... she is ... fucking ashamed!"

"This ... this isn't ... this isn't what it looks ..." he lost breath through contact between sternum and brolly-tip.

"That's what they always say! Oh my, she must've tripped! Oh my, she fell down the stairs! Oh my, she is bruise prone!"

"Goodwife Busybody, please. I will explain. But not on the street."

By now it had dawned on him what this was about. And not talking about it on the street was absolutely natural – the Curse of Lothiriel being true or not.

"I will make tea. And we have ... we have ...dumplings with mushroom-cabbage filling! And pork cracklings for topping ... " the ranger babbled and ran with his mouth like some half wit.

The hobbitess still eyed the huge man towering over her suspiciously. The scars were all OLD and there were NO bruises – so maybe she could trust him enough as to be under one roof with him. And she had to admit she was curious about those scars – some looked like made with ... claws? She shuddered. She appraised the ranger – he didn't look like a wife beater. But then again, they very rarely did look the part ... and he had the dumplings ...

By now there were Big Folks and the dwarf in the yard of Goat Run 2, drawn out of the practice hall in the barn or maybe from chores elsewhere. Surely they'd not allow her to come to harm?

"I will listen you out but if you touch a knife – or tenderizer – I will scream."

While they walked back to the smial Aravir wondered what to say and yet to lie the least. He had never given Ashtuzual's scars any thought. As far as he was concerned they simply had always been there. He felt them under his hand when he caressed her, or glimpsed while they dressed or undressed. The scars simply were there, that's all.

After serving the dumplings and arming the midwife with a knife and fork he began.

"When Lothiriel was in her early teens she was carried away by orcs and evil Men ... "

"Yavanna!" - The hobbitess gasped and clasped her hands to her mouth in horror.


	36. Aravir writes a letter

AN: I hope the format of this chapter will work. I tried to bring all threads of the story to more or less February 2986.

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Februray 2986, Breeland, Staddle, "The Den" smial at Goat Run 2

Aravir made himself comfortable at the table. The smial was quiet. Every body that should be asleep seemed to be so. He should have time enough to finally write that letter he had promised his foster daughter. Inzilbeth, learning Westron, had asked him for a very long letter so that she could read about people she knew and cared about, and not some long dead lords and their ladies. Elfish, at that. As much as she was lapping up anything Dunadan, elves left her cold. Probably her suppressed Eorling background poking through, he surmised.

He decided to go over the events of the last half year in as much detail as possible, enabling her to catch up. Thinking of it, he decided to make a copy for Aragorn. They had no other kin their age, Halbarad "Graveyard Cheer" exempting. Maybe reading about children would cheer up the poor wifeless sod? Or make him take up the suggestion of bridal abduction? At the very least he kept his nephew up to date with family events.

()()()()()()()

Return to Staddle

The retreat from the Etten Moors south to the East Road was uneventful. They reached the area of the Ranger camps near The Last Bridge in late October. Discretion was used to keep Ashtuzual out of sight. Having experienced keen elven noses "Lady Lothiriel" spent a week in her husband's worn-in shirts and braies. She was rather snappy that week.

There they passed on the youngest and orphaned of the captives his Company had liberated from Orc and HillMen raiders to the Dunedain forces on the spot, to be fostered out among families in the Angle. The freed adults set out with them westwards, in the general direction of "home". They would then set out on their own once they arrived in Bree. He still ended up with two Haladin boys – Wyn and Trahere – in his care. At ten and twelve respectively they had been judged too old to be fostered out and yet too young to know how to get home on their own. The smial was beginning to be full of youngsters, especially after the girls arrived ...

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Almarian and Elwing

The two eldest Tarkil girls arrived in Bree soon after the Company, together with news that „five times makes it" – they had a baby brother. The proud mother – according to descriptions practically floating around in bliss – had named him Valandil. Tarkil – who had escorted them to Staddle - tried not to grin all the time and the news of a grandson made Aithon tearful. Tarkil promised to bring Valandil to his grandfather once the boy was large enough to travel.

The sisters were quite different looking. Almarian, fresh after her sixteenth birthday, looked like a Numenorean princess from the old and rare tapestries preserved in the Angle or in some of the original holds, with her angular features and raven hair. She towered over her mother. The only non dunadan element were her eyes – blue. This led to frequent misidentification as Aravir's daughter, with "helpful" neighbours rushing to inform Lothiriel of the fact. The fourteen year old Elwing inherited all of Inzilbeth's curves – indeed her body seemed not to sport a flat surface anywhere - but not her height. She stopped growing after reaching the level of her mother's ear. Her face was Numenorean, just like Almarian's, and with the requisite grey eyes. However, she was a dark blond. Never mistaken for Aravir's daughter, she was taken for a local girl instead – that is, up to the moment somebody looked in her eyes.

And looking in the girls' eyes was something which lads – locals or from his own extended household – Caradoc, Rys, Lolan - were having a problem with. Aravir chuckled at the unexpected development involving yet another new dweller of the smial. Passing on to news concerning the dwarrow, little did know that he was addressing his foster-daughters fears.

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Meanwhile in the Angle

" _I keep thinking of the littles." Inzilbeth said, explaining her insomnia._

_Tarkil did not need to ask which littles she hand in mind and knew better than to point out that one little was half a head taller and the other as curvaceous as their mother. But it would be the kettle calling the pot black. They will be his little girls until the Unmaking of the World too._

" _I know Father is there, Aravir, Ashtuzual, Tesni and the boys. But with the baby will they be able to spare an eye for them? Will they look out for them? And that dwarf you mentioned? The girls wrote that he keeps seeking their company? Should I be worried?" She turned to face him._

_Seeing Inzilbeth work herself up into a state he did not have the heart to keep the secret._

" _There is something about Guntram I have to tell you about ... "_

_GASP – "What is it!?"_

" _I know him and ... "_

" _And what, tell me!"_

" _Actually Gudrun is her name."_

" _What?"_

" _Yes, she is a girl. Or rather a woman grown, I'm not quite sure, you'd have to ask Lothiriel that. She likes to know such things." He brushed the hair which had escaped Inzilbeth's night braid out off her face._

" _She is one of those we rescued in 2981. In her eyes she owes me a blood-debt. By extension this includes my family. And she is an honourable person too. If she was taken by the girls then they have acquired the most ferocious – now that Ashtuzual is waddling about – nurse in Breeland. This is the dwarrow way - he continued by way of explanation of her disguise – women outside their holds dress as men for safety. Not that they have to try too hard – almost everybody, seeing a beard, think it's a man."_

_Inzilbeth dreamt of her girls being taken by a dragon and then rescued by a dwarf with a beard, plaits and breasts. The axe wielding dwarrowdam had fiery red hair gathered into two braids sticking out at right angles from her head above her ears, and wore a horned helmet. And had freckles. And once the dragon was dead the girls and the dwarrowdam played hopscotch on the carcass._

_()()()()()()()_

Dwarrow in general, and one in particular

The Dwarrow were mustered out in Bree. They were happy – the caravan guards were content as they had been treated well, not a guarantied outcome of hires to Mannlings, had been paid as per contract, killed orcs and been paid the bonuses for it, plus the wergild for the fallen – all paid out as laid out in the terms. Just the way the Dwarrow liked it. From their point of view the Mannlings' comportment had been exemplary and they could refer them as worthy employers to other Dwarrow.

The volunteers, even though loosing two of their number, Faram and Kafli, were also upbeat - for mostly the very same reasons. The two that had fallen were both well past two hundred and were looking towards the Ageing that befell dwarrow around their two hundred fortieth year and led to their deaths some ten years later. These two had died fighting, still grieving for the clansmen they had lost to slavers. The attitude amongst the Children of Aule was that they simply brought forward their death by some two or three decades and gifted wergild on their families as a bonus. With children grown and in crafts or trades, a worthy exchange, in their opinion.

Speaking of bonuses, there was the question of the bonus earned by the "Defenders". Whether to share it out at a flat rate, or to bestow upon a single member of the company. There were various suggestions as to worthy feats of arms or bravery. However, after short deliberation Ashtuzual's suggestion that Guntram, standing up all alone to over a dozen Elves led by the Balrog Slayer, was accepted as the bravest act of the expedition.

Groin, however, was pushed into the gloom even further. Already wallowing in self-depreciation since the incident with the elves at the Ford, the refusal of his sister to come back to the Hall was a severe blow. Their separation and Guntram's stay in Bree was a very loud affair. Their roars in Khuzdul could be heard several smials away. But Guntram prevailed and stayed in Staddle with Aravir and joined his expanding household.

It was a very unhappy Groin leading his band towards the Blue Mountains. The death his father was not disquieting. The abduction of Gudrun and the other girls and boys had hit their father hard. Although nobody blamed him for their loss to his face, there was some underlying ill feeling towards his father nonetheless. He could see the pain of having failed his clan in his father's eyes and had more or less expected berserker bravery masking suicidal attempts. His father found a good death.

What made him feel low was his sister deeming him an inadequate protector, preferring not even other dwarrow, but Mannlings over him. He knew the Men in question to be honourable and meriting of dwarrow-friend title, of having saved his sister from slavery and selflessly treated her wounds, yet still it rankled. If he had failed his sister so, how could he have a wife? How could he swear to protect another if he had already been proven to be incapable of doing so? Although only one hundred seven years old he knew – he would never have a family. He did not deserve one.

All he could do was to spend his sister's bonus for standing up to the "Old Coot" on the best smithing tools he could find. And to haggle over every penny. And to make some of them by himself or with kin.

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After the girls had arrived Guntram latched himself to them and quickly became their default companion. The girls were a bit shy of him, just as they were of the other den's inhabitants. But their father and "uncle" Aravir assured them that they could trust the dwarrow implicitly, like the closest of kin, like an older brother they never had. Indeed, inside less than a week the glares and shoves handed out by Guntram at boys looking for too long – meaning more than a passing glance - at Inzilbeth's daughters were worthy of any protective older brother alive. He became their tutor in Common which, with their mother, they had began to learn only after her return from the springtime visit to Bree. Their neighbour Olwina and her children also joined in these lessons, as the other non-Dunedain wife in the village had not learnt Westron while a child in Dunland.

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At this point in writing the letter Aravir pulled up his sleeves and stretched his arms in front of him to crack the joints in his hands and fingers. He cast a smug look at his scared forearms. Being too tall to be marked on the shoulders, and after having one moob half way to bitten off, his Dark Flower now expressed her pleasure by biting him on the arms. He smiled fondly at a particularly impressive imprint of his wife's teeth – he liked to think about it as been made when they beget Thiriston. And in some cases he had vabrances on!

Radiating smugness like the Oronduin fumes he dipped his quill and started on another parchment. He was now to write about the outcome of said smugness. He put the quill back into the pot and tip-toed to his bedroom door and slipped inside. With the moon in the cloudless sky and reflections off the snow there was light enough for him to see whether Ashtuzual and Thiriston were tucked in as they should. The little honker slept in the crook of his mother's arm, the orcess rejecting cots –

"I'd never seen one until we met Hartmut and Herasvinda. Orclings have no cots. Orclings need no cots!"

Who was he to dispute that?

He kissed them gently on their heads and went back to writing.

()()()()()()()

Thiriston (Scared Face in Sindarin)

The begetting of their son had not been a particularly romantic affair – they took to patrolling together during Ashtuzual's "heat" and - after carefully using all their combined senses to check the neighbourhood for friend and foe alike – they quickly ravaged one another, making up for half a year of denied proximity. Once in a tree, giggling about making "elf love".

When they arrived in Bree her bump was showing, as at that point she was three months gone, mid way through her pregnancy.

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She had given him a good scare one day ...

He couldn't find his wife. It was a lovely sunny day, the late Janury sun high in the sky and blazing away, with wind sheltered spaces being positively sweltering, but this did not explain her absence. She was due soon, nobody knowing exactly when. All Ashtuzual knew of gestation among her kind was „six moons" and „it varies" and „big gals sometimes take longer", which was not very helpful.

His mind was producing all sort of unpleasant scenarios. Was she conscious? Was she giving birth in some nook or cranny of the smial or somewhere else on the property? Bleeding to death?

A frantic half an hour later he finally spotted her when – after double checking everything in the smial – he began to comb the property step by step.

She was sprawled on a snowdrift in a sheltered spot. He ran to her. There was no blood nor „anything" and the „bump" looked just like the last time he'd seen it. Or did it? She didn't move so he dropped on his knee and reached to check her pulse like she had trained him to do.

„I'm all right" - she batted his hand away.

„So why didn't you give a sign when I was coming to you?" - He was so relieved he was not angry at her for all the worry she had given him.

„I smelt it was you. And I can tell your panting anywhere" - she said with a smile, eyes still closed.

„If you are all right, then what are you doing here?"

„Basking in the Sun."

He looked upon her, stunned. And worried again.

„Darling, orcs DO NOT bask in the sun. Let me take you inside ..."

„And put me in a damp cave as it is an orc's wont? Get out of the sun and stop casting a shadow over me! I am enjoying the warmth! Basking in the sun is what orcs like best", she purred to tease her husband.

„But ... but won't Angry Face harm you? I remember five years ago ... „

„Ara, that was FIVE years ago! Just like your face and hands are brown from the sun, so are mine! But as you go from pink to brown, and I go from tan to tanner, it is not so easy to see. I no longer get burned. And I got used to it, running around in the sun with _tarks_ for five years now."

"A lass likes her warmth" - she stretched in the sun, with eyes closed, no longer in her husbands shadow.

It suddenly hit him. His wife protected herself much, much less from the sun than she did at the beginning. He hadn't noticed this as it was gradual, like cutting slices off a sausage, you never knew when one passed from almost whole to almost gone.

()()()()()()()

Then came the big day ...

The Rangers and rangers in training were slogging through the snow of Chetwood. Even if they did not actually bag any game, they were working towards two other objectives. They would check the wood for any suspect activity and keep the smial empty of men folk. Ashtuzual was in labour and Goodwife Edelweiss Busybody had chased all males off the premises. Even Aithon was not exempted, although pardoned forest patrol duty. Together with Guntram – also absolved, in his case due to short legs and snowdrifts up to his waist – the old Ranger took position at the Pig's Grin.

Once convinced of Aravir's innocence as to wife abuse, Edelweiss had grown to harbour certain warmth towards the Big Folk, even though a Ranger, but she wanted a testosterone free house nonetheless. Excitable male hobbits – especially the fathers-to-be - she could handle, pounding them with her brolly if necessary, but not "trolls" twice her height and four times her weight. She felt much better with the overgrown brutes out of the dwelling. Birthing was a women's business and that was that. With Tesni and the two new girls at hand she had enough helpers. Only the two small boys – Wyn and Trahere - survived the gender cleansing on grounds of age. They were also to serve as runners to the tavern to bring news that "everything was done".

()()()()()()()

Ashtuzual looked at the infant handed over by Edelweiss. A lad. The hobbitess had already counted the fingers and toes and announced – "ten and ten". And commented subtly that "he looks a tad unusual, but that's to be expected with them curse, innit?". So now it was her turn to check him for evidently orcish features. Not that she had ever examined any orc babies, or remembered how orclings looked like. But she knew that how her child looked liker would determine what his life will be like. Easy or tough. Or better – easier or tougher.

Blue eyes, that was a relief! Not red. Question – would they stay this way? Slightly pointed ears, but evidently mannish – great! Black hair – they both had it. Slightly slanted eyes – no biggy. Indeed, a honker seemed to show few orcish features at all. Or this honker at least. Brow ridges – already pronounced, but among Man often a source of pride for men. For a daughter it could be a source of grief. Teeth and claws were something which only time would tell, though. The still crumpled red face made her think of battle scars. Yes! Scarface, that'll be his name. That'd be Thiriston in the elven language. And he looked so much like a little grumpy Aravir ...

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Holding his son a few hours later Aravir could not quite understand why this smooth faced infant was called Thiriston. Must be something about the World of Women he did not understand. He loved this smooth cheeked beauty. He looked so much like his mother when she was smiling ...


	37. Happy Days

2986-2990

The next few years took upon a rhythm of their own.

Spring 2986, Breeland. Staddle, "The Den" at Goat Run 2

In the spring of 2986 Aravir took stock of his company. Among his boys the almost twenty year olds Breelander Caradoc and Dunlander Rys - with two campaigns and two winters of training - classified as veterans. Another Breelander, Lanon, not eighteen yet, boasted of a full summer of training with Aithon and two winters with the others. Shorty decided to risk his participation in this year's campaign.

His 2nd Ranger this year was Strawberry, whom he vaguely remembered from the youngling's rookie year at Sarn Ford. He knew he later campaigned with Tarkil and L'ill Liver. That was a good thing as it suggested that the lad was open minded – hopefully that would include "Middle Men" as well. On this assignment having somebody with the mindset of Thanor would be courting disaster or – at the very least – be counter productive. He'd have to send such a man back to the Angle.

"I volunteered, your Lordship. With all the new, older men from the Holds being available for duty in the Lone Lands, youngsters like me are being assigned to border patrol. And more training. I've been on four campaigns already, I've done border patrol as part of my training, I'd be bored to death.

_Like youth always he cannot see the gift he is being given; but he made his decision; then again, he has survived four campaigns – compared to my boys he is twice the veteran_

"And with what I've heard from Honey and Ears and L'ill Liver I trust a season with you will be interesting. I also hoped to see her again."

"No lordship, please, just Shorty." Aravir decided to clear up things up front. There as no way of keeping certain things under wraps. The young man's words gave a good opportunity to do it now.

"Come with me and mind your head" – he took the young Ranger with him to another part of the smial and knocked.

"Are you decent, dear? We have a visitor"

"Yup, come in."

He ushered his new Second inside. Over the next minute his face was a study in emotions.

First joy – at seeing L'ill Liver again, beaming at him with equal joy and surprise, then curiosity at seeing a child in her arms, then round eyed astonishment and a whirl of the head to face Aravir.

The deciding moment – Aravir knew. _Either he accepts us or stomps out in disgust._ He looked up at the young Ranger.

"We are married."

Strawberry snapped back his eyes to Ashtuzual. He took two steps towards her and dropped down to one knee besides the low chair _orc size_ she was sitting in with the baby and kissed her hand in greeting.

"So it was him you were sighing about when you thought we could not hear, eh?"

Ashtuzual grinned – a bit bashful about apparently everybody hearing her sighs - and nodded.

He glanced at sleeping Thiriston and asked in half whisper:

"Boy or girl?"

After communicating with his wife with their eyes Aravir left them to catch up on their acquaintance and went back to his study. He felt enormous relief that things on this front had gone well.

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The Home Front was well tended. The unquestioned mistress of the house - Ashtuzual - was assisted by the elders – Aithon and Guntram/Gundrun - then the three girls of like age – Almarian, Elwing and Tesni. The trio often ventured out together, usually with Guntram. To the surprise of (almost) everybody the dwarf was surprisingly knowledgeable about household matters. And his cakes – once he acquired all the condiments he claimed he needed – were a wonder. Walking around with a gaggle of girls made it easier for him to swap recipes and talk about baking with Breelanders – Big or Small Folk alike. The foursome soon became a common sight in smials all over Staddle. Guntram's mastery of cakes and pastries proved to be an ice breaker of the highest order. Guntram – though male, was tolerated. As being evidently assigned by the queer Big Folk from Goat Run 2 as an escort to their teen girls, he must be trustworthy. Secondly, the Hobbits were the Race first to appreciate a male's interest in finer points of the Art of Cooking. Thirdly, as a Dwarf he was odd by definition. Fourth, although broader than a hobbit should be, he did not have that disquieting height that Big Folk had. Conversely, Ashtuzual soon got used to having up to a dozen females of various races and ages in her kitchen baking "something". She was not that interested in sweets, exempting anything dripping with honey and raw egg yolks thickened with sugar into a hard mass. Being supplied with these, or (half) raw meat discretely passed on by Guntram – she left them to their fun. The Hobittess' cooing over Thiriston and adoring his lightly pointed ears was also nice.

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Aithon was the (grand) fatherly figure the two Haladin boys - Wyn and Trahere – needed. With Guntram chipping in they took care of the heavy work around the house and tended to the horse and ponies. Aithon also trained the household members in weapon use – two enthusiastic boys, two interested and three uninterested females.

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In High Summer Aravir – sent on his way by ribald jokes – nipped into Staddle to check the going's on and pick up mail. With no fixed area of patrol he was impossible to find in the field, hence all missives went to Staddle.

He found himself being immediately dragged to the bedchamber by his wife.

"Yavaana be praised! I've missed you so much! And Thiriston has a tooth! And I'm in Heat ... "

"But you said that nursing ... "

"My body is just going crazy to have your babies ... "

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In 2986 Aravir recruited five Haladin boys, aged 16 to 19, which Aithon and Guntram immediately began to put through their paces once the company went into Winter Quarters. With roads hardened by first frosts Groin brought a small smithy for his brother, but declined to stay. He gave off a haunted appearance and once finding Guntram in good health and cheerful he looked eager to get away from Breeland.

Gronguron was born before Yule, to some tut-tutting by Edelweiss about Lothiriel succumbing to the baby-rush experienced by newly wed hobbit lasses and having children less than 12 months apart.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

2987-2989

The next few years were much of a muchness, with Aravir patrolling north Eriador and bringing home recruits. His summertime visits brought Hastogur (boy) to the world in 2987 and Pengyril (girl) in 2988. No deaths in the Family were recorded in these years, with children of various ages growing.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

Imladris, Spring of 2989.

Having gone though official missives the day before Aragorn was now enjoying letters from friends and family. He read out snippets to his beloved with which he enjoyed the air and view from one of the gazebos in Imladris' gardens. He chuckled over the latest letter from his uncle. He replied to the inquisitive "Hm?"

"My cousin" – he cunningly used a broad term – "managed to save his daughter from being named Nastahandin (Eye Gouger). His wife is from a warrior culture and wanted a fierce name for a daughter too. Their boys are Thiriston, Gronguron and Hastogur, by the way. _SNORT_ They finally settled on Pengyril (Killer Bow). Now the girl is fated to spend her teenage years at the range" – he chuckled, imagining his aunt by marriage and uncle arguing over the name. He chuckled again and went on reading quietly over the developments among the Aravir's, Tarkil's, and their associates.

"Darling?"

"Hm?"

"I'm not silent just for silence's sake. I am silent expectantly".

He looked up and his slate pools met the leaden orbs beneath perfectly formed sable arches.

"Your cousins are Dunedain. Dunedain of High Birth marry other Dunedain of High Birth. And the Dunedain are not a warrior culture where mothers give their daughters "fierce names". So **who** is this cousin by marriage of yours I have never heard about yet? Who is she?"

Aragorn groaned inwardly – of all the people he did not wish to reveal Ashtuzual to his betrothed was somewhere near the top of the list. With her father and brothers topping it. Women and their interest in relationships of obscure kinsmen!

He tried to elf it.

"Her identity, although unusual, is not of importance meriting closer examination at this moment."

The Elvenstar looked at him as if he had just farted.

"Speak like a Man! I get such hogwash from Father, Mithrandir or ... or ... Figwit!"

Aragorn decided to put it delicately:

"She is of the Avari which fell into the hands of Morgoth."

Arwen's eyes and lips assumed perfectly circular shape.

"Yrch?" she whispered.

Aragorn nodded almost imperceptibly in Ranger fashion.

"Which cousin is the husband?" she asked after a moment, her face inscrutinable.

"Aravir" he mumbled.

Arwen shrieked with laughter

"Your uncle? Your HEIR?!"

She laughed uncontrollably, hiding her face in hands then glancing at him, and bursting into laugher again. Until she fell off the bench.

That allowed her to compose herself a bit. She wiped the tears off her face, giving Aragorn the opportunity to interject.

"Not heir anymore, he renounced".

"Never mind ... what's my future kinswoman like? How did they meet? Did she waylay him in the Lone Lands, had her wicked way with him – dishonoured - he was forced to wed her?" GIGGLE

"Actually he freed her from slavers ... "

GASP Arden wrapped Aragorn's arm around her and snuggled into his side.

"Go on! That's romantic! What happened? Were you there?" she asked eagerly.

Aragorn began the tale but in a moment was interrupted by another howl of laughter

"PRINCESS NASTAHANDIN!"

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The summer of 2989 brought about a visit of Tarkil and Inzilbeth. The ex-Rohirr left Miriel, Indis and Valandil with their grandfather in Staddle. Together with the two older girls (plus Tesni foisted on them by Ashtuzual) and a small escort they made a little tour of Numernorean sights in the neighbourhood – Fornost and Annuminas topping the list. As Mithlond was not Numenorean it held no interest for Inzilbeth. Besides, she was expecting and beginning to show and wanted to go back. The whole family rode back for the Angle in the autumn. Once back the standing of Almarian and Elwing on the matrimonial market shot through the roof. They had dropped out of sight for almost four years and returned for the winter time balls fully grown and worldly. Very worldly. So worldly in fact that there were things they could not speak off. Not only had they seen the old Capitals of Arnor and Arthedain with their own eyes, the sweets they could bake escaped description in Sindarin, let alone Westron. Common wisdom (read – snobbery) held that only Quenya could supply words worthy of such wonders!

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The lack of the two daughters of Tarkil at Yule was compensated by the wedding of Caradoc and Tesni. The highlight of the party was a sloshed Ashtuzual – just recovered from birthing Hadril (girl) - promising the groom a "whip to the face" should he abuse his wife. And waving a whip in an attempt at demonstration.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

Besides various family matters Aravir pursued a pet project of his.

During his years in Breeland he first began to suspect, and then found proof for the existence of a secret language spoken by big folk Breelanders. This was a language which did not seem to pass outside the door of their homes or – outside –was not spoken by more than two people at once. More than once he had observed – himself unseen – two Breelanders speak their singular tongue and switch to Westron when a third joined them. The most astonishing thing to this whole business was the fact if one of the original pair left, leaving behind the other and the newcomer, those two switched to Breelander once the leaver was out of earshot. As some words were similar and as far he could confirm their meaning from context – e.g. someone pointing to a cow and using the word he knew meant cow in Dunlander – he was fairly sure that the secret tongue must be what the Breelanders spoke before the Numenoreans arrived.

He did not even know how close to the truth he was. The conquerors from Westernesse tried to protect first Anduanic and then Sindarin from the fate of Noldorin. Public use of the languages of the "Twilight People" – as they were called in documents, or "Men of Darkness" or "Lesser Men" – as they were sneered at in every day speech was banned. The penalty was flogging, preferably in front of the perpetuator's family. If there were three speakers not only was the squealer's identity unsure – unlike in a one on one situation, but three or more people speaking Breelander in public was on the books as Sedition. And that was a crime typically punished with a sentence to the forest felling camps along the Greyflood or Brandywine. These camps – known during their day as the _ghoul-lags_ for the tales of hunger-crazed inmates eating fresh corpses, passed from fact to legend, then through legend into myth, and then were forgotten.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

Aravir also began to give thought to what was he to do with his two eldest recruits. They were coming close to the end of their contracts and he had to decide what course to pursue after they were free of obligations after the 2990 campaign..

Rys was no Ranger material. He was a good warrior, that nobody could deny, but his conscience was that of his commanding officer. Ordered to protect he would protect, ordered to kill he would kill. Aravir decided not to offer the young man a new contract. Instead he he would suggest other career opportunities to him. He could recommend him to the caravan guards running the Great Eastern Road, the friendship with Groin giving him contacts there. As he was a Dunlending there was no career for him in the Mark, but beyond it lay the Southern Kingdom. A letter from "Thorongil" – which Aravir would gladly procure for him – should ensure his hiring by one of the various Gondorian armies. By now Rys was both fluent and literate in Westron, immediately positioning him as somebody of a calibre way above an average recruit. He also new some basics of Sindarin, so–called "army Sindarin", about 150-200 words of command. Aragorn's insider knowledge was priceless in this regard.

Caradoc, the other survivor of the four originals, was a different story. He was a good Ranger candidate, a protector. He'd never blindly follow an order harming innocents. Yet he would not be that interested in eventually settling in the Angle. Not to mention that he had already forfeited that possibility by marrying Tesni - even if the Angle-Dunedain were capable of grudgingly admitting foreign born spouses, Aravir doubted they'd accept families from a different tribe. Secondly, the young couple had to become established here and now, which meant Breeland. So why uproot them later? And Breeland was a place where Caradoc was a local and – even if tainted by contact with Rangers – accepted. Tesni being an excellent sweets baker - Guntram by praised! - did not harm their prospects either. Her Dunlending origin made her no more – and probably less – suspect to the locals than had she been a Dunadaneth. To him Aravir was more than happy to offer another seven year contract. However, instead of passing him "up", to "genuine" Ranger work, he wanted to retain him for helping with training. He would serve as wonderful buffer between the Haladin, Breelander or Dunlending recruits and him - the Dunedan officer. Not that such a subaltern was absolutely necessary in a unit of such size – but being introduced to certain things by "somebody like me" speeded up the assimilation process. By now Caradoc spoke very passable Dunlander and a smattering of Haladin – and understood both very well.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

And there was another issue constantly gnawing at his soul. The safety of his wife and children. Although protected by their out of the way habitation in Staddle surrounded by innocent and well intentioned hobbits, with couriers from the Angle being selected on grounds of not being known as supporters of the Thoroughbred party, the presence and escort of Aithon and Guntram, almost every year there had been some sort of "incident" involving either uninformed Rangers:

"Let go of that hobbit child, orc!" the Ranger hissed with venom. "Let go of the child and I'll give you a quick death!"

Ashtuzual froze, having one arm grasped by the Ranger and feeling a knife against her back, and having Goodwife Sandhole's daughter in her other. But this is something she was prepared to deal with.

" _Orc your mother and your granpa's a goat_!" she hissed back in Sindarin. " _Let go of me or I'll scream '_ _ **rape**_ _!' and you'll be lynched before you can count to ten. And Strider will piss on your grave for getting yourself killed like an idiot!"_

Hearing the six year old hobbit ask:

"Why is the man angry, aunt Lothi? And please speak language too."

_"If you upset the child I'll scream anyway."_

Or non-Breelanders, like dwarrow traders:

Do you see that man with the flail, no longer on his way to the barn, but looking our way? I helped deliver both his sons and daughter. Saved his cow, too. What do you think he'll do if I scream, Master Dwarf?

This was a canker on his soul which cropped up now and then to gnaw at him when he stood watch – will he return home to find his wife murdered? His children dead? What more could he do about it? – Breeland was the safest place he could think off that could accept them, yet without severing ties with his folk.


	38. Court Games

Early 2990, Imladris

This day Arwen queried him on the political situation amongst the Dunedain again.

„And why haven't you announced that Aravir renounced his rights to the Chieftainship?"

He looked at his beloved and gave a small smile.

„You don't ask the easy ones do you?" he sighed. She beamed with satisfaction.

He held up his arm inviting her to lean against his side:

„It will take a while" he explained. Once they had arranged themselves on the couch to mutual satisfaction he began.

„This is linked with our situation. And how one looks upon it. When I told him of our betrothal he looked so happy – and when I stated your Father's terms he looked like a child which was first shown a toy and then the toy was taken away. He went wild and demolished the room, he was so furious at Ada. He considers the terms cruel, inexplicable and impossible. Obliging me to destroy Gondor and overthrow the Stewards. He kept on imploring me to do something to make you and me happy."

„He mentioned me?"

„Yes, amongst the screamed out invectives I could make out „making his daughter unhappy" and „Arwen is ... being given the short straw". SNORT

„So, my uncle despairs for us. He expects me to end up like most Chieftains before me – my bones bleaching somewhere in the sun in the lone lands and you a heartbroken old maid. That is why he wants the succession issue to be cleared up well ahead, with my heir universally acknowledged and well trained for the task. And not what it is now – if I die the officers of state will rush to Staddle and find Aravir in the embrace of an orc and with a half-breed on his knee. He wishes to avoid that, while I think such a proclamation to be unnecessary. As we will marry and have children."

He pressed his cheek against her head.

„What I wish to avoid is the powers that be taking a closer look at WHY did he resign. The identity of his wife will get the Dunedain excited, to put it mildly. If the Thoroughbreds get their braies in a knot over Dunlander or Haladin wives, an orcess would send them into frenzy. I'd fear for Ashtuzual's live – they'd murder her and the children – as abominations, as a crime against the Bloodline of Westernesse". He went on to explain the political situation, including the father of his best friend Tarkil – Aithon the son killer – living with him in Staddle.

Arwen just shook her head:

„Your uncle sure got himself into a pickle" ... „WHAT exactly did he suggest we do about our situation?"

Aragorn explained.

„Promise me you will abduct me if I ask you to ... „

()()()()()()()()()()

2990, February, the Angle, the Sirbrith Estate

" ... and remember girls, when talking with appropriate young men, you can always drop some of the knowledge you picked up from Uncle Aravir and Aunt Lothiriel ... "

Almarian and Elwing winked to one another behind their mother's back. Not all that they learnt in Staddle was "appropriate" – even by a long shot ...

... _the blokes were doing something manly elsewhere in the smial while the women were doing something womanly - feather plucking. Over time Guntram had become a fixture at womanly events. He gruffly explained it as „dwarrow do everything together" and his presence was backed by the lady of the house. So he cheerfully took part in the plucking. Although he participated and was welcome at competitive wood chopping or speed horsetail braiding events too.  
_

_The subject today was orc lads and lasses, Ashtuzual's race becoming the worst kept secret among the elder inhabitants of the smial. Tesni was let on the secret at some point as she was the only female out. And it felt silly to leave her out. Especially as her background made accepting this quite easily. Among the two male „originals" that Shorty had recruited Rys had bucked against the „cursed woman" story from the very beginning._

_**„So, at the beginning I was really unhappy that Shorty and Honey didn't allow me to put on rings on my face. Selfish bastards, I thought, not allowing me to pretty up myself. At the same time I was worrying myself into a state over when will they start taking turns having me. I was still thinking of myself as a slave, you know. Almost jumped out of my skin the first time Honey dragged me under his blanket. It was a very cold night, I had gone to pee and my teeth were chattering. But still all I could think about was that finally he'll boink me. Tucked me into his belly and wrapped his arms around me. That got me shaking even worse than before. He was so huge! That's all I could think about. But with no action around my nethers I calmed down. And he was so warm! It was like lying next to pony! So big and warm, got me purring like a cat on the hearth in no time. Yup, girls, your da's even warmer than Shorty. And nobody patted me on the head to get me to sleep like he did – two taps and I was asleep at once every time. Get yourself a warm bloke, that matters. You'll see how useful that is after coming back to bed after checking on the littles. Only later did I learn that Mannlings like their womenfolk's faces smooth. That's different for orcs. See, lads like for the lasses to have some bling on showing that they can stand pain, that they can go wild in the sack, that they have the mettle for whelping. Lasses in turn like their lads with scars. The more the better. A finger or ear lacking is best, gets a lass rubbing her knees in excitement over bedding a tough one. Means the lad is tough, is a survivor, is a winner. That he took shit but gave out more. That he won. This also tells the lass he can take a nip or two while they ...** _ _„_

_Ashtuzual prattled on chaotically, oblivious to the red hot ears and cheeks of Almarian and Elwing. Nobody had ever given their Aunt the Talk on what to talk with well bred teenage daughters of Man and they were relishing every moment. This was beyond their wildest dreams of what adult women may talk about. Nonetheless she had reminded them of their childhood - of how they clambered under their father's blanket to warm themselves against his bulk and his hand delicately patting their heads - this made them homesick._

_Gudrun was sure that this was way beyond the pale of proper for under forty lasses, and very risqué for the under sixty five crowd. But she did not know what Mannish mores were like, so she kept shut. Tesni, attending births of piglets or kittens since she remembered, was not as mesmerised as the Dunadanith were – living in a hovel tightly packed amongst other hovels had given her a much broader exposure to the facts of life than they had. Yet it still was educational_.

2990, February, the Angle, the Sirbrith Estate

Aragorn was enjoying himself. His Progress through the Angle had brought him to Sirbrith. He ran into the season's dancing parties organised by Helgon, the largest landowner in the south of the Angle. With six sons to find wives for the good lord, who loved a good feast himself, was happy to host most of the county's festivities. Although the harvest was poor, the obligatory one year reserves kept hunger well away, losses in the Lone Lands had been low, so everybody was happy and full of cheer. Aragorn himself indulged in several dances, keeping to wives of higher officials. He did not wish to feed the rumour mill nor to upset some girl's life.

Suddenly he felt like thrown back to 2959 – he saw a cascade of molten gold and silver hair – just like those he was surrounded with at Yuletide in Meduseld of that year. As far as he knew there was only one female holder of such hair in the Angle – his cousin by adoption. He smiled at the convoluted family ties his uncle's impulsive adoption had produced – he remembered the warmth he felt when he explained to laughing Arwen who was whose grandfather. By the time he tracked the blonde head to her lair he had attracted a tail – a hopeful mother of a maiden, one hopeful maiden, one hopeful father of a maiden, one hopeful brother of a widow, one man whose business he had not yet discerned and his bored body guard – Ciwon son of Miron – instructed by Halbarad to follow him to the privy if it was large enough. He found the blonde in a gaggle of matrons accompanied by a giggle of maidens, with a muster of young Rangers trying – often with success – at not becoming a shrewdness. When he approached all tongues fell silent and all eyes were on him.

"Inzilbeth daughter of Aravir, I presume?" – he asked the odd woman out in terms of looks.

In the surrounding silence he was fairly sure he heard a suppressed two-throated girly squee of "Strawberry!" and something which sounded suspiciously like a suppressed manly squee of "Ami!" and "Wini!" coming from his bodyguard.

Inzilbeth rose and curtsied:

"My Lord Chieftain, yes."

Aragorn turned as to address both the tail behind (which was losing his bodyguard) and the gaggle ahead.

"My Ladies and Gentlemen, this is my cousin Inzilbeth, the daughter of Aravir son of Arador."

Turning to the ex-refugee from the West March he said.

"Would my lady-cousin favour me with a walk by her side?" and extended his arm.

With eyes shining like Silmarills Inzilbeth took his arm and glided along. Aragorn asked the necessary questions about everybodies health, expressed delight at Tarkil's second son being delivered just two months ago, and listened with interest to the account from the visit to the "seats of our ancient kings". For more information about Aravir and aunt Lothiriel "wink" the shrewd matron manoeuvred the Chieftain back to the giggle of maidens, saying that her daughters were much better equipped to answer his questions.

Once back at the starting point and seeing the pain in Ciwon's eyes Aragorn hissed – "go and dance". He was rewarded by such gratitude in the young Ranger's eye - who then flew to a blonde short grey eyed voluptuous beauty whose dark blond hair strongly hinted at connection with Inzilbeth and Tarkil to ask her to dance – that he decided to give the youth leave for the whole evening. Halbarad and his fears of daggers in the darkness of privies be damned.

He turned his attention back to his cousin, who introduced a Numenorean beauty to him. Who looked at him with merry blue eyes.

"Hadn't I not known better, I would have said that you are a daughter of Aravir yourself, young lady."

Showing mirth with all the appropriate demeanour, the maiden said, laughing.

"After I arrived at Staddle all the gossips stampeded to "hint" to Aunt Lothi that her husband's daughter showed up!"

Making use of the opportunity of a slow dance coming, Aragorn escaped the crowd with Almarian. Over this and the next slow dance Almarian gave the Ranger the newest news from Staddle and put some meat on the bones of older stories Aravir had written about. With more energetic dances coming up, he led her to where Lord Helgon stood with his eldest son, Olon Halfhand. While the older men talked Olon – who earned his moniker from losing half of his right hand on his first patrol some twelve years previously – asked Almarian to dance.

He spied Inzilbeth watching the dance floor – her face wore the expression commonly described as "she had seen Valinor".

He circulated to creep up to her side. They chatted and Aragorn learnt that Tarkil had retired early, for some reason or other. But the thin lips told him more.

"Is it his father's infamy?"

Her pained expression told him all he needed.

A panting Ciwon showed up with his partner.

"This, my Lord Chieftain ... "

"Just Aragorn, or Strider, we are family ... "

"This is my other grown daughter, Elwing."

With another slow one announced Aragorn asked her to dance.

Inzilbeth saw Valinor again.

"You two look astonishingly different?"

She smiled.

"You should see the rest of us – although only ten, Miriel looks exactly like mother. She may be used to spy in the Mark when she's older. Little Indis is seven, but already favours Father's side. Valandil is too small to tell – he's five – but has the same round head like me and tendency to be wider than taller – like me." She smiled adorably.

"After the 2986 campaign Strawberry stayed in Staddle with us all winters, up to the time he had to ride to his assignments for 2987. It was really a joy to run into him here." Elwing said with sparkling eyes.

"The Lord Halbarad thinks very highly of him. He assigned him as my bodyguard" – _needlessly_ Aragorn whispered – "and he has comported himself admirably." Tarkil's second daughter was evidently lapping this up.

As they bowed they both heard a hiss.

" .. half breed ... "

and

"... what's he thinking?"

Leading her back to her mother he could see her lowered head.

"How many dances to go?"

"At least six."

"Good, this gives me two dances with each of you and your mother too."

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

Same place, also a feast, a few days later.

Olon was buttressing up the wall of the ballroom, with his right hand behind his back. He was cursing his forgetfulness and waiting for the moment when he had been at the feast long enough to run away. He had been rude to several maidens trying to draw him out to dance and flirting with him, teasing him about his hidden hand, invariably simpering out their conclusion that he must be holding a love letter in it.

Damn women and their one track minds! Did everything and always have to be some sort of male-female relationship?! Was it so hard to grasp he was self-conscious of how nasty his hand looked with the two lower fingers and part of the palm chopped off, and that he wore a special glove hiding this disfigurement whenever he could? How could he extend that ugliness towards a girl in greeting or during a dance?

He noticed the Almarian girl approaching. He inwardly groaned. She was pretty, her exotic blue eyes making her very temptingly pretty indeed. And she had surprisingly broad horizons, knowing more of the world outside the Angle than many Rangers he could name. And having even travelled about. And dancing quite well. And riding well ... but surely she will ask if he is holding a love letter...

"Are you hiding your wounded hand? Why?"

He looked at her as if she was this year's calf with two heads or similar freak of nature.

"Why are you hiding it?" she repeated.

"Be ... because I forgot my special glove."

"How did you get your wound?" she changed the subject.

He started telling her about his first season in the field, eyeing her warily. Yet she seemed genuinely interested. At a certain point she nodded.

"Lack of experience. I have listened to enough rants of my Uncle about untrained twenty year olds being pushed out in the field, yet not ready for it and becoming warg food - my father or grandfather - more calmly – also lamenting the losses among the first and second timers."

He continued. He told her how he had been disarmed by the orc by a tap to the nerves of his elbow with a stick – the shame – losing half of his hand turning away the blade of the sabre, then desperately jumping on the orc, making him lose his balance, kicking away the sword arm and crushing his windpipe by dropping down on his knee on the enemy's neck.

"You had a worthy opponent that day. To make you lose your sword that way means he was no novice. You should be proud of yourself. You fought a champion and prevailed! The orc veteran is no more, you killed him! You are alive, not him."

"My buddies said I was a poor Ranger to get wounded that way ... "

"And what did the older Rangers say?"

"They said well done ... "

"See?" she said, exasperatingly satisfied with herself. Was she fidgeting? But he felt better.

"Shall we dance?", he offered.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

Same place, a week later, festive season is winding down

He held the weeping woman in his arms and rubbed her back and felt disgust at himself. He had repaid her and her family's kindness and support and acceptance of his uncle and his wife with harsh, unkind words. Over the last fortnight he had shown the Tarkil family favour. This did not cost him a thing, was quiet pleasant in fact, as they were all good company. He had sent a clear signal to society that Tarkil – a respected ranger in his own right - and his wife were not in any way "tainted" by association. Neither by association with the strangely low profile Aravir, nor by Tarkil's father having slain his other son, his brother Thannor, the influential if controversial brain and muscle behind the Thoroughbred party. This did not cast any shadow on the House of the Four Roses. At least in the Chieftain's eyes. He rammed home the message that foreign born or not – the adopted daughter of his uncle was his kinswoman. He was happy that by doing so little he was doing so much for them. Until he noticed that Ciwon looked downcast. Until his ear caught sobs in a rarely frequented area of the Helgon Estate and he dug out a red eyed Elwing, who stammered out that she couldn't see Strawberry

"'cause for Mum he's just a peasant".

He asked for Inzilbeth to be summoned to the room assigned to be his study. Once she entered and closed the door in a rare fit of Aravir-like fury he snarled at her:

"You deny Ciwon courtship of your daughter? Are you like the people who hiss "half breed" and whisper "to the pigsty" behind your and you family's back? WHAT were you before coming to the Angle?!"

This did not go down well. She collapsed upon herself, loosing inches of height, her faced looked as is she was about to beg not to be thrown out into the snow. And her face crumpled and reddened and began to cry. He caught her and dragged to the couch. She was inconsolable, crying and sobbing out something in Rohirric. He could barely grasp her Westfoldian dialect, but going by the quantity of vulgar expressions she must have been telling him something downright awful about herself and her previous life.

"For the children ..." she sobbed, back to Sindarin, "everything for the children ..."

He felt rotten.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

Four days later

" ... and this is where Olwina and Beleguron live, Aragorn. He met her ... "

Aragorn listened attentively, yet at same time noting Strawberry and Elwing taking a path at right angles to the rest of the party, forcing Tarkil to make a choice between Chieftain and wife, one daughter with suitor or the other daughter - whose escort – Olon, found something fascinating for the two of them behind the Tarkil's house. There were faces glued to windows of all houses around them.

He no longer felt bad.


	39. Shit is stirring in the South

Spring 2990

This year, after five year's absence, Aravir decided to campaign in the south. He had avoided recruiting in Dunland after his previous experience, having no stomach for starving children for sale pushed into his hands. Nonetheless his mind told him he should alternate. One year in the north, one year in the south. He also stored in the back of his mind the plan to visit the Lhun Valley in the north and the lands between the Greenway and Harlindon, to the south and south-west of the Shire. There were human non-Dunedain settlements there. Not that he had a pressing need for recruits anyway. He decided to skim northern Dunland on the way back, on the way "out" passing to north of it and heading directly into the wilds of Eregion, the Noldo kingdom of Hollin of old.

His company included another Ranger, his Second of three years now – Bushbrows. Strawberry, although an excellent companion, had been useless as Second. He simply was at least ten, if not thirty years too young for the role. Putting a barely fledged Ranger over absolute greenhorns did not produce a disaster only because that year Aravir had consciously avoided trouble, focusing on getting his rabble from one village to another. Hence his request for a mature Ranger.

Bushbrows was originally from the holds and had excellent rapport with the Haladin boys. But he was no Tarkil or Ear. He was no more than a competent sergeant, not a subaltern. Also, his experience had been limited to the vicinity of his hold in the North Downs, he didn't have the broad experience which Angle based Rangers had.

Rys and Caradoc served quite competently as corporals. Twenty three and four by now, they were experienced enough for their jobs and ready to step up. Eight Haladin lads and Breelander Lanon were the rank and file of the Company.

He took his company directly south-east, clambering over the South Downs and continuing in that direction towards the lower reaches of the Hoarwell. He planned to cross the snow swollen river just above the massive marshland called the Swanfleet. Disaster struck two days BEFORE crossing the Hoarwell (Mitheitel). He later bored his audiences with this example of letting one's guard down – everybody had been relaxed and at half-readiness, expecting the REAL campaign to begin beyond the river, not before it.

2990 Spring, Lower Hoarwell Valley

They were captured during the night. The Dunlendings apparently crept up on the guard _Had he dozed off?_ and clobbered them with padded weapons into obedience.  
"Dey'z an odd looking bunch, that's fer sure. Mix of Numenors and our folk. But I knows this'un 'ere. A Numenor but 'e's not a ranjur, 'e's a slaver."

"And how do you know, Kormik?"

" Sold 'im my eldest girl I did. Deyz slavers disguised as ranjurs."  
Aravir knew his fellow Ranger to be too well controlled to gasp, but he saw his widened eyes. And a "we have to talk about this later" glare. Internally he groaned – no good act can go about unpunished, it seemed.  
"You've got a grandson" – the Dunlending's fist in the face threw his head back.  
"You think I wanna know 'bout that? 'Bout you fucking 'er? Selling 'er broke my heart it did – t'only thing you've got going for you is that you paid so much for Te ... for 'er that I didn't 'ave to sell any of the others. You shouldna told me you fucked 'er."  
The Dunlander was now putting the boot to him, with each phrase punctuated by a kick:  
"Selling hurts" – "Remembring hurts" – "Knowing hurts MOSTEST!"

" _... people for whom it matters more who covers their mares than who fucks their daughters" flashed through his mind._

"It's not his, it's mine" – Caradoc's speech was slightly slurred from the clubbing to the noggin he had taken.

Kormik bounded over to him. He raised the torch for a better look.

"As I thought, yer the shifty eyed snot who kept the numenor's back then. Got bored with her and passed 'er to you? Fucking yer master's leftovers, are you?"

Caradoc was now given the same boot treatment as Aravir had a moment ago.

"I married her a year ago. I was her first."

The boot hesidated.

"Eh? 'Ow do I know yer are not lying to cover yer arse?"

The Dunlending crouched next to him for a better look.

"Gerrof 'im! 'E's been treating 'er right 'n proper! I stood as 'is best man a'tha wedding! Tesni's doing orr right!" – Rys finally got his wits back and joined the yelling.

"I tells ya! I'm from Trelik an' my word's as good as any Dunlander's!".

The rest of the party could not follow the exchange as they did not know the language.

()()()()()()()()()()

Eventually Aravir was dragged off for a word with the band's leader, Gwion.

"So, are ye ranjurs or slavers?"

"Rangers."

"Then how come you bought Kormik's lass? Ranjurs string up slavers, not buy lasses. Or lads, as I've been told. You some renegade? You fancied dunlander cunny? She pretty? Huge tracts of land?"

"She was skinny. Flat as a board back and front. Bones sticking out like goat horns all over the place. Her siblings same or worse. I just couldn't look at those hungry eyes ... "

This was not the answer the boss was expecting.

"What did ya do with 'er then?"

"I raised her."

"Out of the fucking goodness of yer heart?"

Aravir nodded:

"Out of the fucking goodness of my heart."

()()()()()()()()()()

"Tell me what are we to do with you now."

"Release us."

"And why is that good for me?"

"Release us and keep the money we had on us – you caught us fair and square. Call it the "idiot tax" - the ranger smiled and the Dunlending cacique guffawed.

"Use the money to buy food and go orc hunting with us."

"How do you know we need food?"

Aravir knew that the Angle had many crops washed out by the weather, so the situation in north Dunland was probably the same. But he was not telling Gwion that.

"Crops been bad all over Eriador. You'd be no exception. And why else would you be out raiding? I can tell bandits from hungry peasants and husbandsmen."

"And the orc hunting, what does it give us?"

"It gives you a piece of silver for every pair of orc ears and it keeps the Rangers off your back. You earn coin, you are not killed by rangers, you are not a burden on the village while you are in the wild." He then added for emphasise.

"Pure gain."

"Why not kill you, keep the loot. Or sell you off?"

"The Rangers will look for us. They find our weapons on you - you are dead. Selling us - sooner or later SOME news will reach the Rangers. Then they'll come asking, village by village. And your's will burn. Only safe solution is to kill us and bury our possessions. Not much gain in it, eh?"

After some chest puffing they reached an agreement.

()()()()()()()()()()

Under the terms Bushybrows was released and went west to arrange for foodstuffs. The food would come from the Dunedain holds in the South Downs. That food was to be sent to Tharbad, together with silver for orc ears. In the meantime the Dunlendings and Aravir's band were to hunt orcs in Eregion, along the tributaries of the upper Greyflood. Gwion was not so happy about releasing half of the Dunedain he held, not sure of the value the Haladin, Breelanders and the lone Dunlending had for the Rangers. But he eventually conceded to the necessity of releasing the Ranger, accepting that nobody else had the authority. It was the youth of the non-Dunedain which finally swayed his mind.

After sweeping the upper Greyflood (Gwathlo) valley in early autumn they moved out of the mountains. They were to proceed to Tharbad for the food, on the way stopping at the Dunlendings' village for more porters. Upon arrival at Fynon, their village, the blue eyed Ranger let Rys continue to his village which lay two days further to the West. They would pick him up on the way to Tharbad.

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During the orc hunting Aravir found himself talking with Gwion and Kormik about the situation in Dunland. According to them "shit was stirring in the south". Emissaries of a "wise man" were making alliances with chiefs. The "wise man" offered loot from raids on the Strawheads and protection from orcs. He also hinted at regaining lands taken by the Strawheads, the lands which Wulf was so close to regaining just over two hundred years ago. In return he expected a levy of both men and women, in both cases the taller and broader the better.

Slavers which had reached Fynon the previous year spoke of there being almost no girls nor boys available in the south and centre of Dunland. The "wise man's" tribute had sucked up supply.

With many chiefs already allied to the "wise man", those who were not were visited either by his allied Dunlendings or strong bands of men and orcs and forcing them into alliances. Supposedly the whole south was allied to him by now – willingly or not – and there was sporadic fighting in the centre as the wise man's enforcers pushed north. Refusal to join was not accepted and brought about repeated offers. Each backed with growing force, culminating in the settlements being burned down, with death or slavery for all inhabitants.

Gwion had sent the "wise man's" emissaries – Dunlendings in his service, although one was rather queer looking – packing. He had no need for the "wise man" – orcs did not trouble him and he was too far away to raid the Strawheads.

Aravir did not need ask whom did he raid when the crops were bad.

One day, after hearing "too many mouths and not enough land, poor at that" once too many, he asked why did not they settle beyond the Glanduin or Hoarwell.

"The ranjurs kills us, why else?"

The son of Arador started having quiet talks with Gwion and Kormik, his second in command. Kormik's search for nefarious intent in anything Aravir said led to a scuffle after which the ranger had a black eye and Caradoc's father in law several bruises. Later talks were between Gwion and Aravir only. Speaking of Kormik – Aravir noticed that the grumpy naysayer apparently had a problem with accepting his son-in-law. He either glared at Caradoc or pointedly ignored him, then asked him a question about Tesni, denied the truth of the answer, and then reverted to his previous attitude for another week or two.

()()()()()()()()()()

2990, Autumn, North Dunland, village of Fynon

Aravir smoked a pipe in front of Kormik's hovel and watched Fynon's life go by. Suddenly he blinked. He was looking at one of his sons. He blinked again. No, there were some differences and the young creature looking at him with apprehension was wearing a dress. A dirty, well patched dress.

„There you are!" he turned to acknowledge the approach of Kormik.

When he flicked his eyes back to the space between the huts where he'd seen the strange girl she was no longer there. After some chit chat he could not contain himself and asked.

„I've seen a rather odd looking girl ... „

„Don't sweet talk me. Nuffink odd 'bout 'er. Simply she's an arf-orc. Yer after blood again. Yer talking 'bout Angarad. Aled's lass. Sorta niece to me, 'e was a second cousin. Or summfink."

He looked at the Ranger.

„Going after 'er with a knife is a bad idea. Very bad. Even if we treat 'er like shit she'd still be one of us. Beware the outsider who ... „

„I get the message. I get it. Why should I go after her with a knife?"

"That's what's them ranjurs like you do. Orc, troll, arf'orc, anything or anybody they say is "bad" they kill."

„We protect ... „

„Things in Dunland are different. Now you learn that. Aled, one of the lads, disappeared for a couple of years. Two years back he shows up with Angarad in tow.

„'Is daughter 'e says she is. If 'e says so" - Kormik shrugged - „then she is and it's none of our business 'ow 'he got 'er. Never said what he did during that time. Everybody suspects 'e must've 'ooked up with some orc clan. Ta girl's a big 'int, if ye know what I mean." he chuckled and used his thumbs to make slanted eyes and fingers to push up his ears.

"Not an un'eard orf thing. Died of lung rot this winter Aled did, so she's with 'is sister's family."

„How is she treated?" the ranger, more and more curious, asked.

„I've seen sprogs treated worse, I've seen'em treated better ... Why yer asking? „

„Curious, I'm simply curious."

Kormik evidently was not convinced.

„Ranjur, mind you, Dunland's different from whatever yer used to up north. We an'orcs don't always kill ourselves on sight. If a couple of orc lads showed up at the stockade right now, wishing to trade, and ye looked at 'em funny you'd be gutted. Me and Gwion being the first to do so. That's none of yer fucking business."

"Not that we would had let more that three or four inside the stockade at one time. And counted all our bints and brats fer any missing." He added after a moment of thought.

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They were interrupted by Kormik's third daughter, Disglairo, now 15 and prettier than Tesni had been at her age, who brought them buttermilk.

The Dunlending made himself comfortable and sipped the liquid.

„Lemme tell you a story, ranjur. When I was looking for a wife I had to go out to get one. All the lasses my age were cousins or second cousins. I went to our clan's Summer Festival. The nobs and village 'eads talked politics, while simple folks like me traded, made merry and looked for mates from outside our villages. That's 'ow I came upon my sweet Kerris. Gave a good spear an' two daggers for 'er, I did."

He smiled at his memories.

"She told me a story from 'er old village, with the Wolverines, before 'er family came to the Three Arrows. They is closer to the mountains then we is and they get's to trade with orcs almost every year. One time the orcs were buying skillets. I recons they 'as womenfolk too and they needs pots and pans too. Well, they was short on coin and goods to trade and they offered a lass of their own as a makeweight in the deal. Story 'as that she was ugly as a pig's afterbirth, but trust one biddy to say that of another."

He chuckled.

„Never mind, the blacksmith took 'er as a second wife or someffink, maybe wanted a taste of orc cunny or someffink, I suppose, well, there's no nay saying the rich."

Aravir nodded. He well knew that blacksmiths often were the richest and most influential men in a village. One of the reasons of Fynon's poverty was the lack of blacksmith.

„The orcess had a couple of sprogs, with one making it through the children's diseases and mishaps to adult. Strong as an ox he was, Kerris said."

„'E was jus' a couple of years older, so she knew him. Skilled at the forge he was. After the smith died his two sons – one orf 'is wife and the uvver orf the orcess - carved up the in'ertance. Wiff daggers!" -

The Dunlending laughed so much at his witty wordplay that he had tears in his eyes.

Banging the Ranger on the shoulder he asked.

„Carved it up! You get it? - hurr hurr!"

After wiping the tears from his eyes the Dunlending continued.

„For a year or two he was the village blacksmith. But some folks were giving 'im and 'is wife - 'e 'ad married Kerri's cousin - an 'ard time. What the folks put together later was that when the orcs came to trade 'e must've 'ad a talk wiff'em. Three fortnights later orcs show up in such number that everybody's thinks it's a raid. It wasn't. They came to 'elp 'im move the smithy to their den in the mountains. Supposedly they grovelled before 'im, 'anged on 'is every word, would've carried 'im and 'is wife - she went wiff 'im, though folks warned 'er that she'll be stew sooner than she'll be able to say „oh my goodness!" - on their backs. Licked 'is arse, Kerris said, so that 'e would not change 'is mind. Me guess is that 'aving a smith in a village is an even bigger thing for orcs than it is for us."

To that Aravir could only nod. From what he knew - from Ashtuzual and elsewhere - having a smith would make a den leader's prestige go through the cave's roof! The story was fascinating in itself in so many different ways. He was sure Ashtuzual would love to hear it.

„So don't fuck with Angarad." Kormik succinctly emphasised the moral of the story.

„Don't fuck up all our plans. Good pretext for some folks 'ere that would be, even if they don't care a Forgoil's ball 'air 'bout 'er. Many folks can't think otherwise than „ranjurs is bad news, very bad news."

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The girl eluded him expertly. Whenever he spied her she managed to disappear immediately after noticing him. He finally caught her at the washing stones. He plopped besides her and started to slam his laundry alongside hers. When she noticed who was besides her she froze. He could see that she on the verge of running for it.

„ _Stay, lass_." He whispered in orcish.

That made her jump out of the water. She inhaled loudly with surprise and looked at him with wide open eyes. Slanted but otherwise fully human hazel eyes.

„ _You_ unknown word unknown word, _tark_?" she whispered back.

Just as Ashtuzual had forewarned - every tribe had its own dialect.

And considering the distance of her den from Gundabad it would be a miracle if they could converse. He nodded in reply.

„ _Gundabad speech. Dunlander? Common?_ " he suggested.

It now was the girl's, still breathing heavily, turn to nod.

„Common. Know better than Dunlander."

He studied the girl's face. It had the same traces of her orcish heritage as his children did. She looked a bit older than Thiriston, so he guessed she was seven or eight - nine at the most. But something made him wonder. She was closer in looks to his sons than his daughters, even if his girls' younger age was considered. Was she ... he decided to act on his hunch.

„You are not a honker, but a half-orc."

She gasped again and looked terrified. Her devastated expression made him blurt out:

„I won't tell anyone."

„Please, that woman would kick me out or sell me when she learns that I'm not her brother-daughter.„

„No, I won't tell." He repeated his reassurance.

„I swear on my Ranger's honour." He saw that mention of „Ranger" almost made Angarad do a runner.

„ _Tarks_ don't eat roast orclings for supper. And orc ears are not tasty." He added, remembering what his wife had told him about orcish common wisdom about the Men of Westernesse. He waggled his eyebrows reassuringly at the girl.

„Trust me." He pleaded.

The half-orc shrugged.

„I have no choice. You squeal I'm fucked."

„I will not be the cause of any harm to you. But I'd like to hear your story."

The girl considered his words for a moment, then shrugged and began.

„My mother was kidnapped on a raid somewhere in Dunland. I dunno where, name of her village doesn't tell me anything. She was picking 'shrooms in the woods when she was taken."

The blue eyed ranger nodded - so much like Leri's story from ten year's ago.

„She was taken to the den and was the clan bosses slave. Didn't treat her badly, as far as I can say. She was killed when the new boss killed my _krank_ [father] and took over as clan boss. She was killed together with some of his other females and my brothers and sisters, pure orcs, too. And my older blood brother. I was too young to be noticed. That and I was just a _balaak_ lass."

She sniffed and wiped the snot and tears off with her forearm.

„New boss told all the _shara_ \- there were three of them - to take their whelps and mates and get the fuck out of the den. Aled didn't have a mate but he took me with him and brought here. Was not bad while he lived. Now, with his sister, not so good. That woman keeps on telling me that the first bad harvest happens, to the slavers I go. I ... I .. I don't want to be _snaga_." Her faced crumpled and she began to weep.

Aravir gathered her in his arms and started rocking her soothingly.

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„I'll gut the busybody if 'e put a finger on Aled's pup ..." Kormik walked upon and gaped upon the scene at the washing stones with an open mouth. His first thought was that the Dunendan was strangling the girl but she was grabbing him, not pushing him away. And he was evidently gently rubbing her back.

„Kick me bloody and fuck me silly - what the fuck is going on?"

„Numenors cuddling orc bastards - now I've seen it all ... „

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In the evening the Ranger gave Cormick a small pouch. It held enough silver and brass for a strong pony.

"Please take Angarad off her aunt for me. And for the time being keep her with you and bring her west with the rest".

"Whadday want 'er for?" Kormik's voice was heavy with suspicion.

Aravir had had enough of Kormik for one day.

"I'am going to do all the awful, nasty things you think I'll do!" – Aravir snarled. "And throw what's left to the pigs!" - he glared at the Dunlending.

"Can you lay off at least for once? Can't you for once do what I'm asking for without questioning my motives? I did right with your daughter, didn't I?"

"Remains to be seen ... "

Aravir put his head in his hands and GROANED

"Go away, just go away before I fucking kill you ... "

The Dunlander's mind went back to the scene in the stream.

"Or right, or right, I'll buy'er or summfink and add to my brood."


	40. General confusion and uncertainty

2990, autumn, Dunland, Fynon

After coming from orc hunting with the Ranger band the first step Gwion had to take was to accommodate them in the village. As they had walked in together with men from the village and sported beards – even if short – no stampede was set off. The Numenors tried to make themselves not so conspicuous. He led them to the largest building in the village – his barn. He took the animals over to his brother and let them have it all to themselves. And their pack ponies, of course. Proved a fussy lot – slept the first night outside, then wasted lots of water on sloshing out the barn. Kept a smouldering fire going all the time too. Brought in silly quantities of reeds from the stream to sleep on. Prissy fellows...

Then Gwion called a meeting of elders. They met outside the village for privacy. He knew that the two Rangers and Caradoc spoke reasonable Dunlending. He did not want them to eavesdrop.

Rys had gone on to his own village and was out of the picture, which was both good and bad - no eavesdropper with intimate knowledge of local customs, yet no relatively trustworthy source of information on the Rangers, with grasp of all nuances.

He first had Tadag – his elder son – relate what happened while they were away. Nothing of note. He then passed on to the tale of the raid – the raid that never was.

He looked at the family heads and old warriors. They already knew that things did not run as planned. Pleased with low loses they were upset with the little loot he could present at the moment. It was not enough to make the village survive the winter.

So he related running into the Numenors two days beyond the river. And the astonishing offer of the captured Ranger. Of the risk he had taken, taking the Dunadan at his word – with what Rys and – less so Caradoc - had said having weight on his decision to trust him. That in a few days, after some rest and making arrangements, they were to go to Tharbad to collect the promised ransom, paid out in food to last the village half a year, plus the silver for orc killing.

Then he came to the even more shocking offer. That they could resettle. Wholly or in part. With the Rangers' blessing and assistance, at that. After restoring order to the assembly he explained the reasoning the Ranger leader had given him for the offer.

"There is lots of empty land in the Lone Lands. Which we, Rangers, patrol. Every third year or so hunger makes you raid the Lone Lands. Putting you on the empty land will keep you busy and well fed, so we will not have to chase you around and lose men fighting you. To the contrary, you will end assisting us by chasing prowling bandits and orcs away."

A few shouting matches later the eldermen agreed that there was logic in what the Ranger had said. The main issues to be resolved were the wish to move at all and the Ranger's credibility in general, as well as capacity to talk for Rangers in general, and not just in his own name.

"If he really can arrange that we can settle on good land, with enough land for everybody, then I'd bless his farts as caressing breeze and if he peed on me I'd praise his piss as gentle summer rain. But he has to prove himself first. Resettling is a serious business. And in a few years we will have a choice to pay tribute to the Wise – he harked and spat – Man and his orcs, or be dead. Or slaves, which may not be much better. The Numenor might - I stress MIGHT be giving us a way out."

He made a pause.

"So far I can't say anything bad about him. We fought side by side and the Ranger and his men always loyally covered our sides. Rys – from two villages away, so almost one of us – has been with him for six years. The other Dunlending lads – including one from this village – died in combat. Besides the Numenor and Rys testifying to that, there's also the Breelander Caradoc. There also is the matter of Kormik's daughter - I will talk with her myself when looking at what land can the ranjur offer. Supposedly she was well treated, like a fosterling – SHUT UP KORMIK – I said that we will see for ourselves if this is true or not. And the Breelander claims that he is her husband. Live and see. Although her case is not to be overlooked, this is a lesser thing."

"What matters more is can he deliver on" – he continued.

"We will now go to Tharbad for the food he promised in return for the release of his band and not raiding into ranger patrolled lands this year. And the money for orc hunting. Once the food is in the village I – my son Tadag, Kormik, and maybe one or two others – will go with the Numenors and their band to see what they may offer. And talk with Kormik's girl too. Murtag will stay to run affairs here. "

He answered queries as to the cost. The move would not come at with SOME cost, of course. He quoted his conversation with the Ranger leader:

"This will come at some cost to your laws and customs. If somebody is unhappy with a ruling of your village court, they can appeal to a Ranger. Not just any, he will specialise in Law and do for you the same he does for Rangers. He'd visit every six months or so. Now, major changes without which there is no agreement" – Aravir pumped his finger into Gwion's sheepskin.

"No slavery and no trade with orcs. The orcs which reach this area are all raiders and slavers – so you can consider this to be a ban on consorting with bandits and slavers, and not orcs in particular."

Gwion could see in the steely blue eyes that there was no discussion.

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After the food and silver were brought from Tharbad, the Ranger band and four Dunlanders – Gwion, his son Tadag, Piran and Kormik set out for Staddle. Gwion decided to take his heir along, with an eye at only part of the village resettling. In such a case he and his eldest would have to divide the chieftainship. While overseeing the village for a few weeks would give Murtag valuable experience. Piran was an influential elder, good to have on one's side, and not known as his yes-man. This lent greater wight to his opinions. Kormik – whose inclusion produced amusing groans from Shorty – was going on two accounts. Verification of the incredible story of his daughter's wellbeing and as "sniffer" of potential foul play.

The trek was uneventful.

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2990, October/November, Somewhere between the River Hoarwell and the South Downs

The blue eyed Ranger fell back, to the end of the column, biding Angarad do the same. He was not quite sure how to begin.

"I have children like you."

"You have children my age? How many? Any girls?"

"A bit younger - they are between five and one. You are out of luck – the three eldest are boys, the youngest two are girls. But in a year or two my friend's two daughters should come live with us for several years. They are a bit older, but your mixed blood should make you more or less the same mental age."

"I grow different than _shara_?"

"Yes – one can say you are a year or two older than you would be as _shara_ or _tark_."

They ambled on in silence, the girl digesting the information, Aravir glad to put off the difficult part of the conversation. The misunderstanding had given him a moment of respite. But he had to go through it. The girl seemed secretive enough.

"By saying I have children like you I had something else in mind."

She looked up at him, curious.

"They are _balaak,_ honkers _._ "

Angarad kept on walking but looked pole axed. The Ranger steadied and steered her in the desired direction with his arm when she zig-zaged..

"My _shauk_ is an orc. But this is a secret. Everybody thinks she is just an ugly _shara_ after an _ulug_ cast an Evil Eye on her. But you would know the truth anyway. So I am telling you this. And asking to pretend that you also believe she is just a _shara_. It is important that you pretend."

They walked along silence again.

"Is that why you bought me? 'Cause I'm _balaak_ like your whelps?"

"Yes. So that you could live with us. My wife will kill me for this. She almost killed me when I bought Tesni, Kormik's daughter. Now she's Caradoc's wife" – he gestured at the stocky Breelander.

"Will I have to be a wife now too?"- the small voice in which it was asked made Aravir's guts tangle.

"No! Yes! No!" – Aravir rubbed his face – "I mean that once you grow up, and there is a lad you fancy, and he fancies you, then you may marry him and be a wife. But you have ten years or so before that will happen."

They walked along in silence again.

"Will she like me? Will she be angry at me?"

"She will love you. But she will try to kill me first."

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2990, October/November, Breeland, Staddle

The Dunlanders gazed with wide eyes at the round windows and doors set into the hillside. They also gawked, getting some scowls in return, at the hairy footed stout mites. Some of the shorties – the Rangers supplied the correct term - "hobbits" – looked with curiosity at them in return. They were impressed by the wildness of hair and beard on the men. They had seen impressive amounts of hair before, of course, but dwarves looked licked-groomed in comparison. Here they beheld the untamed wildness of hair and beard incarnate.

Kormik was silent _for once_ and did not spout any theories on how doubtlessly those hobbits were out to get them. He was lost in his own thoughts. Regardless of everything the rangers, Caradoc, the Haladin boys had said about his daughter's condition he was certain he was being lied to. If the Master – that Shorty - did not use her, then she must had been available to all the other males in the household. Why else keep a girl-slave? Or at least before that Caradoc claimed her for his own woman. But only one brat? Did they beat her so much she miscarried the other ones? And did she have help when having the brat? Or did she have him alone? Probably in the barn or cellar ...

Rys had told him that nobody had abused - nor "used" - Tesni in any way – he wished that he could believe him. But the lad had told him that she was NEVER beaten – such an outrageous lie made it clear – Rys was a sell out, passing on whatever lies he had been instructed to. Even to his fellow Dunlanders. With every step he felt worse. He would finally see to what life he had sold his little Tesni to ... but that had saved the others ... what was a man to do ...

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At the Pig's Grin, Staddle

"Wait at the tavern. Have an ale or two on my tab. I'll be back after an hour or two. I have to make arrangements with the missus."

"Why?" – Gwion's son inquired.

"She rules the house." Aravir explained as if to somebody slow on the intake.

"Nothing a belt or two or backslap can't fix" - Piran shared his advice on married life.

He was immediately subject to a heliotrope glare which made him squirm.

"That is not our way" – Aravir accented every word.

Leaving the oppressed victims of Numenorian and Eorling trespasses in the care of Bushybrows he took Angarad and his boys and went to face the wrath of the orc.

Gwion had noted the Rangers disgust and – was it anger? – at Piran's suggestion. He filed the knowledge away, to warn the others to be very careful around the womenfolk of the Numenors. They either did not hit their females or were ashamed to admit they did. Not that his people beat their wives as a matter of course – he himself had never raised his hand against his main wife, nor even the underwife – but as long as the neighbours were not bothered by the noise a man could discipline his wife any way he saw fit. He had to instruct Piran to keep his mouth shut. Pissing off the host was neither wise nor polite.

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Meanwhile Caradoc took his father in law to his cottage.

Tesni looked at her father like at an apparition from another world.

"What are doing here?"

He just kept looking at her, head to toe and back.

Not her best dress, she knew, but quite nice nonetheless. Nothing wrong with it ...

"What are you doing here? Why aren't you in Dunland?"

He took a step, then another towards her.

"I ... I wanted to see you ... "

She narrowed her eyes.

"You sold me. And I'm married. I'm not yours anymore." She said suspiciously.

"I wanted to see if you are orr right."

"Well, I am." She took some steps sideways to keep the table between herself and Kormik.

"How did you find me?"

"We captured dem ranjur and that 'usband of yours ... "

"Ye didn't harm them?" She shouted – "if you did I'm killing you!"

"Now, I'm na 'aving any of ... "

"SHUT UP!" – she had the knife stand next to her hand and could grab anything instantly if she needed.

"I'm not your anymore! What did you do to him!? Where is he?!"

"In da passage. Giving us privacy. I done nuffink to 'im. Almost nuffink ... "

She ran around the table the other way, giving her father wide berth.

"CARADOC!?"

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The son of Arador was on his knees. That put him more or less face to face with his wife. The furious orc was holding him by the lapels and shaking with all her might. And screaming into his face. The words falling from her mouth were ugly. Vile. Rotten. They fell to the floor and crawled away to hide, so ashamed they were of their ugliness. Irritated even further by his silence she cuffed him on the ear.

"Will you say something more to me today besides "I love you", "we have to talk", "let's go to the salle" and "I bought another girl"?"

The last statement made her shake him furiously again.

"I love you. I'm sorry, but I had to do what I did. Let's go and met Angarad."

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The girl's face after she lowered her hood made Ashtuzual's heart stop.

"Had Aravir been ploughing orc cunny all over the place?" – flashed through her mind.

Yet the girl's face, so very much like that of her children, tugged at her heart. After failed attempt to communicate in whispered orcish they shifted to Westron.

She began by bathing the girl, with intention to burn her dress and clothing her in something of her own. Angarad was not much smaller than she was - _shara_ blood ...

"I'll kill that oaf of mine! There's barely any meat on you!"

"Not his fault. I have always looked like this after I came to live with Aled's sister and her husband. After the man has eaten the boys get their share, then the woman, then the daughters. I was at the end. That's the _shara_ way. Your _shauk_ fed me plenty. As well as his warriors. "

Ashtuzual breathed slowly. She now remembered Tesni telling her something like that. No way were these men, treating their women like orcs snaga, sleeping under her roof. They were worse than orcs! And she was still seething over her husband's recidivist slave trafficking behaviour.

"AAA-RAA-VEEERR!"

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Later that afternoon Aravir explained to Gwion that we wished to host him in a manner following the customs of his people. He showed them the barn, assuring him that his barn in Fynon had been the best he had ever slept in and that he wished to reciprocate. And that he could only hope that his humble barn would be to his guests liking.


	41. New Home Planning and "I am not worthy"

Winter of 2990-91, Breeland.

Staddle, "The Den" at Goat Run 2

After their night in the barn the Dunlendings were preparing themselves for breakfast at the Ranger leader's house. Gwion saw Rys exiting a smaller house on the premises and frantically waved him over. He needed the young man's knowledge about the Numenors. He cursed himself for not doing this earlier. It was the Numenor's snarl at Pinar which alarmed him to the possibility of major differences in customs. Finery of customs does not come up when living it rough in the Lone Lands, after all.

"What to do with the Ranger Lord's woman? What are we to do? Do we ignore her? Can we look at her? Are there customs limiting what to look at? Is it permitted to look at her face? Neck down? Waist down?" – Gwion tried to cover all possible angles.

"Can we talk to her? What causes insult?" – he looked more imploringly at the young Dunlander than he would have liked.

Rys smiled. He had passed through some accommodation problems too.

"You will be introduced to her. Just give your name, and say _My Lady Lothiriel, my pleasure_." He said that in Westron, switching from Dunlander which they had been speaking.

"Better use Common as she does not understand Dunlander very well, and speaks it very little."

"What about ignoring her or not?"

Rys wondered what terms to use to explain this to a fellow Dunlander. He had learnt the ways of the Numenors and Breelanders from observation. But he had been in a slightly subservient position, as a destitute youth taken into a lordling's service and thus due to show respect even to his women. Main Wife in particular. It could be different with a Chief.

"Treat her as if she was a man you respect. Your equal. At the very least another Chief's Main Wife. After introduction you can speak to her first, addressing her as _Lady Lothiriel_. You can look in the face – especially if talking to her - but do not stare – that is rude and cause for insult."

Rys pondered his slightly rusty tribal customs.

"Before you get used to their mores it is best not to start conversation with the women here at all. Let them talk to you and just answer their questions. They are free to address you, here is no harm in that, nobody will come with a knife at you if you answer them."

Rys decided to make one more point clear before hand.

"The Lady Lothiriel is ... the Lord will explain that himself. But ... whatever she is, we all, the retainers, greatly love her and respect her."

()()()()()()()()()()()

The Angle, the Tarkil House, early winter 2990

Waiting for the twin betrothal announcement feast at the Tarkil House the two sisters, Almarian and Elwing compared life in the Angle with their fostering out to Breeland. On one point their impressions differed greatly. They had switched roles as to which "stood out" and which one was "ordinary". In Breeland Elwing, with her 5'1", fitted in ideally, not to mention her generous figure also being quite typical. So in the Angle she found herself in the position of rotund runt. Her sister – at 5'10" – had been the tallest female in the whole of Breeland. And very few men were taller. Now she was no longer "the beanstalk", "the pole", or some other object described as long and flat. Her one feature making her strikingly distinct from most women in the Angle were her eyes.

()()()()()()()()()()()

Winter of 2990-91, Breeland.

It took the better part of two days to work out what land measure system to use in planning the villages and fields for the Dunlanders. Although both sides had a good notion of how much land "enough to sustain a family of five" was, any planning and especially surveying required the use of some sort of land measure units. It took a visit to the fields around Staddle and much walking and measuring out with steps and arguing to come up with a commonly understood unit.

The lokator (a specialist in establishing villages, manors, estates) – Harnor - sent by Aragorn was a gift from the Valar. Although hard of hearing and not always doing what the parties had actually asked for, but what he had "heard" them requesting, he did know what he was doing. Whatever it was. And after a week the sides discovered that Dunlanders were speaking in terms of ley farming and the Dunedain as well as the Breelanders in terms of crop rotation. This meant recalculating everything, as the land required for each system differed widely. Which Harnor recalculated. He did not mind. He had thought that establishing villages in the Angle for the re-settled Dunedain had been the pinnacle of his career. He was delighted to have another big project, so much more interesting than advising on which fields to use for what in a given season.

()()()()()()()()()()()

The Dunlendings climbed the Bree Hill for some privacy and a taste of their hilly homeland. It was a sunny day and they were enjoying the sights. Westwards lay the Barrow Downs rising towards the south, hiding the Old Forest behind it. Directly south of them the Barrow Downs passed into the South Downs, with the narrow passage between the two known as the Andrath. The Numenors had said that evil spirits awoken by the Witch King of Angmar dwelt in those hills to the south east. Once their kingdom had been smashed they fought for another two hundred years – _tough bastards, Gwion thought with reluctant respect_ \- before the plague took them. Gwion shuddered – some twenty years ago one of the neighbouring villages had been hit by some malady. Few survived – he shuddered at the memory of his visit to the village just after the plague had passed. This was one of the reasons for turning down the suggestion the Dunlanders build a village overlooking the gorge between the two Hill ranges. Even the perspective of having an inn with assured income from a trade route with no possible way around it was not enough to overcome the neighbourhood of wights and thoughts of plague.

The expanse of the South Downs – behind which Dunland lay - disappeared in the haze to the East. There was some flat terrain there, between the Great East Road and the Hills. Then, just under their noses, south to north, the three villages of Staddle, Combe and Archet between the Hill and the Chetwood. Behind the forest was the Midgewater Marsh and beyond it in turn, the Weather Hills. These again disappeared in the haze to the north. Directly north those with keen eyesight could discern the North Downs where, according to the Breelanders, the Numenor kings of old had dwelt in Norbury. Only the north-east quadrant was flat as far as the eye could see. Shorty had spoken of another ruined city in that direction, behind yet another range of hills, but these were too far to see.

()()()()()()()()()()()

Panir and Tadag were mulling over the totally different farming practices they had discovered here. Of practices which decreased the land needed to feed a man down to two acres, and allowed a family to subsidise on ten acres – or even less. This was much less than what they needed to feed themselves in Dunland. The two were lazily passing pros and cons of either method between themselves. Gwion, after feasting his eyes with the views, joined in.

"I don't think there is anything to discuss. We've have seen Staddle. Had we raided them we would not had been able to leave with all the loot we could take. We would not even have to torture them to reveal what they had hidden – what they have in the open is a like a dragon's hoard in itself. The fat shorties are absolutely loaded. And they eat twice as much as we do. Same concerns the normal folk's villages further north or Bree itself – they know something we don't. If we are moving and getting assistance, we should change that too. What do we know about what grows best HERE, and on THESE soils?"

"Not everybody will wish to switch."

"Then they'll starve and we will hire them to work our fields" Gwion shrugged. Such was the way of life – the stupid, lazy or just unlucky served others.

"I am all for taking a Breelander, best if hobbit, to guide us up during the first few seasons. If some dunderhead wishes to farm EXACTLY like he had done in Dunland, let him." - Gwion finished the discussion.

()()()()()()()()()()()

The party – the Dunlendings, Aravir, the lokator, some escorts - examined the site for the first village. Shorty was gesticulating and explaining how the deep ditches on the southern side of the Great East had once been part of border fortifications. And that many of the mounds to the south of the Road were ruins of forts. Gwion listened attentively. Nice to hear about the Numenors being at the receiving end of a whupping, even if self inflicted. The fighting had been between the Numenors of Cardolan and Arthedain, with those from Rhudaur also joining in. Apparently the area between Bree and the Hills they could discern in the East – the Weather Hills – had passed from hand to hand more times than anybody could count. The southernmost point of the Weather hills, just off the Eastern Road, was a place all three kingdoms had coveted for some reason or other. He could see the sadness in the Ranger – the kin strife had ruined the Numenor Kingdoms to the point of becoming easy prey for Angmar. The Dunlander had no sympathy for them.

()()()()()()()()()()()

Late winter of 2990-91

In the second half of 2990 Ashtuzual had felt strange. It was the first year in five that she was not pregnant. Aravir had not visited in the summer and they did not make use of her summer heat as had been their custom. She was not sure how she felt with lack of new life growing in her. In previous years she had always looked towards Yule as the time she would have a new whelp. She was somewhat compensated by the appearance of Angarad in her life.

The girl – once shown some heart – latched herself to her. She had been starved for affection. Although Tesni and Guntram/Gudrun also were kind to the mite, it was clear that Lothiriel was her favourite. Angarad was wary of Tesni and it took some time before she stopped being guarded around her. Apparently her experience with Dunlending women had not been the best. Seeing the girl warm up to her was a heart warming experience – for once she did not have to feel ashamed of her race. The lasses at the den must have been at least reasonably kind to the _balaak_ for her to prefer the familiarity of an orcess to that of a _shara_.

Not unsurprisingly Angarad was quite interested in the littles. So much like dolls yet so much more fun. She quickly became enamoured with her foster-siblings. Ashtuzual's keen orcish ear caught a whispered _"so very much like me"_ more than once when the half-orc was playing, hugging or just minding the others. The feeling was mutual – Thiriston demanded to know how come he had a new sister if mummy had not grown her in her tummy and why is she so grown up already. Bigger than HIM.

()()()()()()()()()()()

Early 2991

It felt good to be pregnant again. Angarad dispelled all her fears of having daughters. Her own were still tiny, but she could see that an eight year old half breed looked like. Never to be a beauty like Tarkil's daughter were, yet very passable. And in her – as well as Pengyril's and Hadril's case – looking like plain daughters of Man was all she could ever pray for. She did not worry about her sons' looks that much – she firmly believed that as long as they grew big and strong and reasonably kind hearted and warm in bed they would find a mate regardless of what their mugs looked like. Sooner or later some girl would see how wonderful they were in spite of their looks. She wondered whether a scar might help.

()()()()()()()()()()()

April 2991

Ashtuzual knew that something was wrong. There was no wail from the baby. Just some difficult to describe wet gasping like sounds. And Edelweiss was not her chatty self.

"What is wrong!? I want to see my baby!" she cried.

Edelweiss looked at her sadly.

"I don't think you should. It is ... malformed."

"SHOW ME!"

She should have listened to the hobbit midwife. The sight of the misshapen ... _thing_ with half formed limbs of suspect number, as well as gaps where skin and bone should be ... Ashtuzual was vomiting with whatever she had in her stomach over the side of the bed.

"Kill it" she gasped out.

"It is dying anyway."

"To the midden with it ... "

A while later, cleaned up, she lay in her husband's arms weeping quietly. She was shaking from the sobbing and from fear. She had borne five lovely, normal, sweet tempered children. As normal looking as they could be, coming from a Man and Orc. Was that _thing_ \- she could have sworn it had pointed teeth! – was a sign that Melkor was catching up with her? That whatever shit he did to fuck up elves into becoming orcs – according to old elven legends – somehow had found its way to her latest ... whatever it was. Would her next children be pure Orcs? Murderous monsters she had almost become herself? Would she, Aravir, the others, be able to prevent it? To prevent them from growing into cruel killers? Had she exhausted the quota of "normal" children Yavanna had given her? Or was this a reminder that she was an orc, regardless if she lived like one? There was no escaping the fact that she was an orc, even if she didn't live like one. Would all her next offspring be Melkor's, this malformed one being the first step towards pure orc, with the strength and intelligence of Man, of Man of Westernesse added to orc brutality, viciousness and gratuitous cruelty? Was this Melkor's revenge for all the orcs she had killed on behalf of Man? She did not want this. She did not want to see her children being murderous brutes. She will have no more children. No more ... No more ...

Hearing her repeated sobs of " _no more_ " " _no more_ " Aravir just rocked her in his arms, rubbing her back.

Feeling his arms on her made her feel bad. She was not worthy. He should be with someone like Inzilbeth, who'd give him a dozen rosy cheeked all-Man children, and not half-breed MONSTERS who might murder him in his sleep. He should have children looking like Almarian. He should have a Dunadan wife with whom he could live in the Angle with his people and be acknowledged the prince of his people he is. Not hole up in a hobbit village with a worthless orc _snaga_ who couldn't even give him a healthy child but a shapeless lump of barely living flesh. While his nephew had his sights at an _golug_ princess he was stuck with her. He should have a high born wife who would come to him a virgin and not a slave fucked by whatever orc or Man in the camp fancied dipping his dick into her at that moment. And into whichever hole he fancied. She was not worthy of Aravir's bed ...

He felt her feeble attempts at pushing him away. He heard:

"Go away, go away" through the sobs.

"Are you sure?" he asked?

He saw the nodded confirmation.

He got up, tucked the blankets around his wife and marched to the door to give her the solitude she had requested.

A particularly louder wail – _he had left her!_ \- made him stop. But she had asked him to leave her alone. Not understanding and sad, he moved again and closed the door behind him, muffling the sound of sobs. These soon stopped. Blissful oblivion of sleep.


	42. Some are coming, some are going

Spring 2991, Breeland, Staddle, "The Den" at Goat Run 2

"Mistress, may we speak privately?" – Rys managed to catch Ashtuzual when she was alone, with the littles being accounted for and chores assigned.

"Just a few minutes, please."

She saw he was nervous. They went to the study.

"Mistress, once I've come back from Dunland I'm not the same."

He tried to find the best words to express himself.

"I've followed your husband for several years. My contract has expired. Hadn't the resettling come up, I'd had been discharged. I do not possess qualities Master Aravir expects from a Ranger and I'd be discharged. I was torn between continuing my career elsewhere, or going back. Nonetheless I wanted to see my village, Trelik. My parents, my brother and my sister. So I grabbed the opportunity last year. I thought about taking my discharge money and share of loot and settling down. I could buy enough land for a respectable homestead, large enough to put me among the Eldermen. And I could pay the bride price for – maybe not a chieftain's daughter, unless he had many – but I could have the pick of Eldermen's daughters for sure. But I went home and – I don't want it sound that it looks like a midden, not at all – but Staddle is so squeaky clean that it does make Trelik look a bit of a dung heap." He smiled shyly.

"But it is the customs. After six years here and with you" – he made a gesture to indicate the "Shorty family smial" – "many things feel different. And some make me uncomfortable."

"I wanted to talk about ... what it is like to go live in a different way and maybe not wish to go back ... or not be able to go back. Could you Mistress go back?"

She eyed him steadily, pondering whether to come "clean" with him ...

"Mistress, please, I've known you are an orc since I came here. I've seen orcs in the village, trading. The children crept up to gawk at them and they made angry faces and we peed ourselves with fright while running away ... not that you make such faces, but you sniff the air and hear things which a human ear cannot .. I see you hear Master Aravir from six smial's away, although nobody can hear beyond four. I simply played along, pretending ... "

The revelation of her unconsciously sniffing her was worrying. She smelt and heard things before others and pretended not to. But the sniffing surprised her.

"Caradoc? The younger boys?"

"When I talked with Caradoc about this six years ago he asked me – what does it matter? He PREFERS to believe the curse story and not think about it. The younger boys – they are not so open with me, they stick together, they are Haladin and a few years younger and I'm corporal – so there's a gap between us. I sense a "don't care", or "let's not look too closely" attitude. Believing the curse is simplest and easiest on the mind, too."

They sat in silence for a moment, both in their own thoughts.

"Did you ever want to come back? Could you go back?"

She shook her head instantly.

"Wanting to go back – the first two days. Was terrified of _tarks_ – Numenors for you. Orcish tales to scare children usually involve _tarks_ and _golugs_ – Elves. From third day onwards couldn't chase me away with a stick – although they tried".

Rys smiled.

"Same in Dunland - stay in bed or the Numenor will get you." She smiled to that, amused.

"Like I said - wanting to go back lasted exactly two days. Take Tesni as she was when she came here – imagine her being a badly treated slave for a few years – and then put her in Shorty's and Honey's care."

The Dunlander could only nod to that. Maybe not so well acquainted with the other Ranger, but he had seen him around Tesni and his own daughters a few times.

"Now, being able to go back ... not after the first winter, I think. Certainly not after the second. Too different to what I had grown to accept as the norm. Today? I suppose I could survive in a den – an experienced midwife? With ten years of arms training with Rangers? I'd be sought after as mate, but I'd never be happy. Too different." She shook her head emphatically.

Rys was happy to learn that he was not alone in his feelings of unease towards the community he had been brought up in. Maybe he could take a Dunlending wife but live among the Breelanders? Or maybe he should take up the idea of going down to Dale or to Gondor first?

()()()()()()()()()()()()

Spring 2991, Hobbiton, Bagshot Row, Bag End

"My dear Frodo" – said Bilbo cheerfully waving a letter at his "favourite nephew", actually first cousin once removed on one side, and second cousin once removed on the other.

"You keep on complaining that the Elvish texts I make you read being thousands of years old and that nobody talks like that anymore, nor cares what was written. So here I have a text for you, barely a week old."

Frodo eyed the letter suspiciously but took it into his hand. He saw that it was addressed, in Westron, to Bilbo. He pointed this out. Bilbo just smiled.

"I know who wrote it, and he always writes in Sindarin. One of the race of Man speaking it as his mother tongue". He beamed.

Frodo broke the seal and seated himself to read.

"My dear Bilbo. I hope this letter finds you and yours in good health and spirits. Sadly, Lothiriel's last pregnancy ended with a stillborn child. We are all sullen, naturally Lothi most of all. This has fallen upon her very hard and she has been seriously out sorts since labour. The littles and our newest fosterling – Angarad, of similar descent as our own children – help keep her busy and her spirits up a bit.

I was happy to read that your plans concerning your cousin, nephew or whatever – kinsman, for certain - have come to fruition." Frodo looked up.

"That's about you, of course. Shorty has no patience for degrees of relationship. He knows "nephew" and "niece", "uncle" and "aunt" – everybody else is a "kinsman" or "kinswoman".

Frodo shuddered at the barbarism and went back to reading.

"I have myself in a situation where I require your assistance. My latest venture involves settling Dunlendings in the vicinity of Breeland. My thinking being that a Dunlending kept busy by farming his generous holding is less likely to raid his neighbours then same Dunlending starving on a miserly plot of worked out land. The Dunlendings reconnoitring the land for settling have become enraptured by your Staddle compatriot's farm-craft and will stand no Mannish advisor on crops. It has to be a hobbit, nobody else will do. Maybe Yavanna herself. As your Staddle compatriots are as prone to adventure as is typical of your Race, I turn to you for succour. Do you know of any hobbit, with reasonable grasp of matters agricultural, such as crop rotation and how to match soil type with crop? With said hobbit being ready to ride out to the vicinity of the Forsaken Inn – whose location I trust you are familiar with – for a week or so. I shall cover the said hobbit's fees and cover all expenses. I shall also provide an armed escort – I leave to your discretion should this be mentioned and when – to the said hobbit master of farming lore. The sooner you find such an individual the better, or I shall be forced to abduct some successful farmer of Staddle or Bree. I apologise for putting you in such quandary, but my Dunlending partners in this endeavour are as intractable as a mule crossed with a dwarrow.

I would be delighted if you visited us again. Besides you always being a joy to our eyes and hearts, maybe it would take Lothi's mind off the lost baby.

Please pass on my and mine's best regards to Old Rory."|

"Signed, Shorty."

"Uncle, this is wonderful! This is an adventure!"

Bilbo was not so sure if he liked the light in the eyes of his nephew. But that for later. He tried to think which of his more land-minded cousins might be available and what ruse to use to drag them into what was the middle of the Great Unknown by hobbit standards.

()()()()()()()()()()()()

Spring 2991, Buckland, North Gate

A few days later Bilbo Baggins was on the Great East Road with Marmadas Brandybuck. Two days by pony should get them to Staddle. Maybe he wasn't the greatest farmer he knew – personally, Bilbo would have preferred Peregrin Took – especially as Marmy was on the young side, only forty-six. But he was the only farmer-cousin that could be reached at short notice. And available for travel. With his wife and children visiting his in-laws in the Eastfarthing, Marmadas was home alone. And bored. He could spare a week or two for appraising some fields. He had been doing this – or assisting with such exercises - for over twenty years.

Frodo's disappointment at not going to Bree lasted from the announcement of this fact to his arrival at Brandybuck Hall and squeals of delight of his cousins at seeing him again. It had been about a year since he had moved to Bag End and this knowledge had not sunken in yet among his playmates.

()()()()()()()()()()()()

Spring 2991, Lone Lands around Forsaken Inn, some 20 miles east of Bree

The coming of the Hobbits brought things to a climax. By this point all parties were spent, only the Shireling and Bucklander were full of vigour. Partly through this exhaustion final arrangements were simple. The large village of Fynon - eighty families or so - was to be broken up into three villages. Each was to start with 25-30 families, with enough surplus land for fields to double that number if necessary. The villages were strung along the Great East Road at six mile intervals. At the end of the day they were to be surrounded by moats and palisades. Land allocation was again along simplistic lines (after previous discussion running around in circles, some forgetting what had been their position altogether) – the landless or near landless were assigned one oxgang, landed ones – two oxgangen, eldermen – 4 oxgangen, and the "Chief's Share", another eight worked communally with the produce used in part to support the chief's retainers and the rest to be eaten or drunk at village feasts.

That was in arable fields alone, of course. Everybody had their share in use of Common pastures and meadows, in the woods and waste. The Rangers had imposed non-divisibility of share in land below one oxgang and inheritance by a single person – eldest son, son, eldest daughter, daughter, nearest living male relative - in that order.

Hired hands from Breeland were to prepare 40 shelters for the autumn, and clear the fields for autumn and spring planting at one site. The shelters were to be relatively solid, even if of the wattle and daub type. The reeds for them would come from the Midgewater Marsh immediately to the north. Aravir suggested a move over two years, thinking of the great movement of Dunedain across Eriador from several years ago.

The four Dunlanders were eager to go home after spending the winter away from the village. For two of them – Gwion and Kormik – this came on top of the summer spent orc hunting. Since leaving home in the spring of 2990 they had spent one week in Fynon, in two chunks at that.

()()()()()()()()()()()()

The Ranger was more than happy to take his company south to shield Fynon and north Dunland against the Wise Man's advances. Ashtuzual had moved to the nursery and practically refused to talk with him. Whenever he tried she avoided his watchet pools and snivelled "please, leave me alone". He was upset over what had befallen his Dark Flower. She avoided his touch, she did not wish to be cuddled, she did not want to speak with him. He understood that the baby had been stillborn _that was what he was told_ and that it was much harder on her than on him, but to give him such silent treatment? Shouldn't they be going through this together? He drew blanks both with Gudrun – who due to youth had no experience with such reactions, and with Edelweiss – who had too much experience, telling him that it was "not that unusual and should pass".

Well, if not talking to him was what she wanted, then this is what she'll get. And he ignored her for the last few days before departing. He wanted to hug her before leaving but seeing her hugging herself, looking at the floor, made his feel rejected and not needed again. He stifled an unkind farewell and just left. He had hugged and kissed the littles beforehand, of course.

This year he prepared his company for melee. Eight of his men-at-arms were in helms and hauberks and carried shields. There were too few of them to bother with a shield wall and spears, so he gave them short javelins instead. The two best scouts and the corporals – Caradoc and Rys – were in boiled leathers, armed with sword and bow. Only Aravir and Bushybrows went without armour. They promised their subordinate's – those who clamoured to be "real men" and be able to dispense with armour - such a privilege once they had became veterans of 20 years of campaigning.

()()()()()()()()()()()()

Ashtuzual was happy to see everybody leave. Bilbo had tried to cheer her up and to some degree he did. But he could not address the causes of her problems. Only she could. Or rather - nobody could. Nobody could change the fact that she was an orc trying to wiggle herself out of an orc's fate, dragging Aravir down with her. She had managed to make Aravir upset with her which was a good thing. It had ripped her heart to shreds to cold shoulder him systematically but it was for his own good. She hoped that his ill disposition towards her will fester throughout the campaign and he would return suitably ill disposed towards her. Maybe he would finally tire of her? Maybe finding her as cold as before he would go and winter in the Angle? Maybe find a proper _tark_ woman there? Or maybe start thinking about some pretty Dunlander, like Olwina? But that was half a year in the future. She moved back to their bedroom where – surrounded by his scent and no longer having to be so silent as in the nursery (an almost empty house helped too) - she bawled herself to sleep every night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dreamflower helped with Hobbits
> 
> Oxgang – land which an ox could plough in a season, equal to 15 acres (acre – the land an ox can plough in a day); for the metric minded – 1 acre = c.0,4ha/1ha = 2,5 acre


	43. Cliffy!

Spring 2991, Breeland, Staddle, "The Den" at Goat Run 2

The plan what she should do began to slowly coalesce in Ashtuzual's mind. She would leave the children in Gudrun's and Aithon's hands and return to the Misty Mountains. She would take the pony, evade Ranger patrols – if she was lucky; if was unlucky then it would be the end of her problems – and sniff out a den. Here again – either the end of her problems, or being accepted as midwife and huntress. As a warrior she'd have to go on raids, and she would not do that.

She had no qualms about leaving the children. Better keep the children away from any orcish influence she might pass on to them. Aravir, once he was back, would take adequate care for them. He was a good father. He would provide for them. Living with his Dunadan wife in the Angle, of course. He'd just support this smial with the littles and whoever took care of them. She hoped Gudrun would stay. For all the gaps in Gudrun's Journeyman level in Homemaking she could see she knew that the dwarrodam's affection towards the mites would overcome any physical deficiencies in care there might be.

()()()()()()()()()()()()

Two weeks later, while feeding Hadril, she began to see things with greater clarity. Sweet as the children were, they had to go. They were a weapon which could be released upon Aravir to ruin his standing. Or chance at a good wife. She shuddered. The children were evidence that he had stooped to rutting with an orcess. And he had not simply raped her and slit her throat in post battle heat, an acceptable act, but had lain with her repeatedly, in a parody of man and wife. No matter where or how were the littles hidden, the truth would eventually come out. Like in that story where a _tark_ chieftain married his sister and they both killed themselves.

And the truth was that there was no place for them. She shifted her youngest to her other knee, as her first leg had went "dead". They'd be looked upon as suspect _balaak_ among the orcs and barf-worthy curs among Man. She examined her daughter's neck with an eye on how much strength to put into snapping it for a quick and painless death. Yes, she will do for her children what a mother should do. She will spare them the disgust and derision which all races would dispense to them, she will save them from disgracing their father and from his subsequent denial and dismissal of them. Any good mother would do that, regardless of how much it pained her. Everything for the children. She rubbed Hadril's neck.

()()()()()()()()()()()()

Spring 2991, Breeland, Staddle, "The Den" at Goat Run 2

Aithon kept on eyeing Ashtuzual with apprehension. The girl evidently was "off". He well knew that loosing a child – or not conceiving a child – or conceiving a child of the wrong sex - could devastate a woman. Not only had he a wife and daughter in law himself, but children – or lack thereof – plus "I don't understand my wife" stories had been staple campfire topics during his eighty years with the Rangers. With Glynda it had been a case of ten tries, twice lucky – eight miscarriages, stillborns, and deaths before the child was two years old. Such things were a woman's burden to bear, yet he tried to be supportive when home from the range. Looking back "once lucky" would have been better for everybody concerned, he thought bitterly. Had he been blessed with foresight he would have had strangled Thannor at birth.

With his daughter in law he had first seen the sadness after the miscarriages following Elwing, and then the frustration at having Miriel and Indis, her third and fourth daughters. He knew from conversations with Tarkil – Inzilbeth was very good at hiding things from him - how hard she was taking her "failure" to produce sons. She was fairly obsessed with her "obligation" to give him an heir. And there was the venom spread by ... by that man, by HIS failure – by his firstborn son – to mess up with Inzilbeth's her mind further.

Six weeks after the event the continued sniffling from Aravir's wife finally made him make up his mind – he had to talk with her about her state. But it was too late. The old Dunadan died in his sleep a few months shy of his 127th birthday. He was buried at the edge of the Chetwood forest, with Guntram chiselling his name on a stone placed upon his grave.

()()()()()()()()()()()()

Spring 2991, South Downs, reminiscence of events of Winter 2990

To kill the time on the way south-east Tadag finally got around to asking Gwion about his meeting with Tesni. Arranging it met produce some hassle. After her father's visit Tesni initially refused to see the other Dunlendings at all, then relented to see the chief – if accompanied by her husband. After Aravir's mediation she agreed to Panir as well, as long as BOTH Caradoc and Guntram were present.

...

Retrospective.

Tesni let the guests in and led them inside. The three Dunlanders eventually seated themselves at one end of the largest room, the kitchen, with the dwarrow scowling from the other end. Caradoc was in the room, tending to their daughter.

Tesni eyed the guests warily, somewhat nervously. Checking that Guntram was where he should be, she asked.

"What do you want from me? I know you are the chief" – she acknowledged him with a nod – "but I am no longer of your people." – she added at once.

Gwion had quietly examined her. Well fed, dressed in good quality textiles – a chief had to know such things. No visible bruises nor scars. Quite easy manner around her man. He had no memory of her – she had been one of the anonymous she-brats running around.

"The Ranger Lord is proposing certain ... dealings to us. But we have known him for only a short time. We have not yet a measure of him. He has told us about he treated you, things difficult to believe. So we would like to ask you about the truth of what he said about you ... "

"What does it matter? I'm only a woman."

Gwion forced his hand to stay on his lap and hearing Panir inhale kicked his ankle. Only one woman could interrupt the chief without certain punishment – his mother. Her own husband would be the first to whack her. She evidently was no longer a woman of Dunland.

"Simple – if he said the truth about you, then he likely told us the truth about other things."

She shrugged. Master Shorty had forewarned her, asking her to stick to the truth. Yet she still wanted to hear it from them. That they were to attach any importance to her words was utmost surprising.

"So, what do want to know?"

"He ever bed you?"

She blushed a bit and shook her head.

"Ever give you to any other man to bed?"

Her blush was switching from embarrassed to angry.

"No." she snapped.

"He give you to Caradoc?"

"No."

Gwion was speechless. Panir found his voice faster.

"Then how are you his woman?"

"He ASKED me."

"What?" This time Gwion stumbled out of the blocks first.

Tesni was wearing a smirk by this point.

"That's the custom here – the man proposes marriage and the woman accepts or not. She usually accepts. Yet she has the right of refusal." Details of how this worked – or not – in practice were not for this time nor place, she decided. She wanted this visit to be short. .

That took the Dunlendings a longer moment to digest.

"So, Caradoc asked you to be his wife and what happened? What did the Ranger say?"

"By Elbereth! At last!" – she laughed – "everybody was expecting Caradoc to propose, it was a question of when."

Not fully understanding Gwion and Panir let this part slide.

"Who did he pay the bride price to?"

"Shorty. He added it to my _**dowry**_." She used the word in Westron.

"What is a _**dowry**_?"

"It is the money the woman brings into a marriage, paid by her father."

Seeing their expressions of incomprehension Tesni wryly urged them on.

"Shorty paid my _**dowry**_. Anything else you would want to know?"

"How often did Shorty – or his Main Wife – beat you?" – after a moment Panir added - "And what with?"

Tesni snorted – or maybe sneered – it was hard to tell, while Gwion wondered what the second part of the question told him about his colleague.

"Nobody ever hit me here. "

"But ... but ... you've lived with them for six years ... ?"

"But ... but ... but you're married!"

Tesni looked at them with a difficult to read expression.

"This is not Dunland. Those who beat their womenfolk don't brag about it."

"Anything else? I have a child and HUSBAND to attend to."

This produced the desired effect and ejected the baffled Dunlendings.

By now convinced that the Ranger was somebody who could be trusted - as far as anybody could be trusted in such times, and a Numenor at that.

()()()()()()()()()()()()

Spring 2991, Dunland, near village of Fynon

The Ranger counted heads. Forty Orcs and twenty Men. And eight "tithe's" – four women and four men. Heading from the direction of Rys' village. He suddenly heard some choice Dunlending swearing from his Dunlending corporal.

"The bloke in front is my cousin!"

"The leader?"

"Fuck! No! The first of the "tithe"!"

He quickly analysed the odds and tried to read the enemy's mind. He had no doubt the Wise Man – or his field commander or whatever – had spies in the area. So they very well knew that Fynon – the village making trouble - was an eighty house settlement. This implied eighty to one hundred twenty – if one wished to exaggerate enemy forces – combat capable Dunlendings. And of these the chief, plus sons or maybe retainers, would have swords and maybe mail. Up to five such men, maybe less. The eldermen would have swords too, plus leathers. Ten such men, a dozen? Erring on the safe side, twenty men with swords and some armour. The rest would have spears and knives, with some axes added to the mix. Swords were simply way too expensive for most of the population. A part of the men would have shields.

Better not to mention the training level – if waving a sword about was enough to impress a hapless pitchfork wielding peasant – it would not cow an orc. Not that the orc was any better trained or equipped. The orc preferred darkness and a nice numerical advantage.

And Aravir knew how close to the truth his "common sense" estimate of Fynon forces was –Gwion commanded about twenty so and so average fighters, plus sixty poor fighters. Which, on a typical day, were NEVER together. The simplest tactic – march up and storm the gate – was the most likely to succeed. Part of the men would be in the fields, part would be hunting. In his opinion the best strategy to bully such a village into submission was to approach up to half a day's forced march from the village. Sleep and then jog towards the settlement, timing the approach to about mid day as to make gathering the men the most difficult. And once the enforcers were inside the palisade the game was over – they were amongst the livestock, women and children. It did not require a military genius to figure this out – only some knowledge of local conditions. A slow approach allowing the call back of all men could bring about failure.

He appraised the enemy force once again. He was tempted to unleash his company here and now at them. He had major superiority in equipment and crushing in training and skill. But the initial odds - five to one - were anything but tempting.

He quietly started to give orders to his company and the four teenage runners Gwion had given him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With valuable input from TommyGinger


	44. Oh, My Fighting Uruk Hai!

Spring 2991, Isengard, the Tower

Saruman reclined after his meal and looked at the large wall map showing the southern portion of the Misty Mountains – from Moria down to the White Mountain's range, and from the Sea to the Anduin. His eye was drawn to the valley of the Glanduin, marking the northern border of Dunland. The Istar had sent a large unit there, to enforce cooperation by the last part of the country not yet part of his Plan. Not that he really needed those four villages, but subjugating them would neatly round off the map. He liked neatness. And prevent the spread of any ideas of resisting his offer.

The size of the unit kept on worrying his mind. It was "just right" for the size of the villages in question. Yet there always could be some freak variation or unpredictable variables. He hated that! But sending "that which is needed plus half", or "times two" was SO non-scientific! And wasteful. He had considered attaching a section of ten Uruk-hair to that force but had backed out at the last moment. From time to time he regretted not having done so. This was one of those of times.

Oh, my Fighting Uruk Hai. A grin spread over his face. In contrast to that pipe weed addict he had no intention of waving a piece of steel around. That was beneath an Istar. Mithrandir did ill for the reputation of the Order by doing so. But nevertheless a wizard needed some numbers - or some muscle - of followers to supplement his arcane power. His colleague of the pulled-through-the-hedge-backwards appearance schemed and meddled and planned and plotted to arrange and rearrange his minions on the board. Too many variables, with each piece having a mind of its own or – in most cases – thinking it had a mind at all! He smiled at his wit. So much safer to grow, to breed a force of one's own, obedient to a single will – his own.

Oh, my Fighting Uruk Hai. He had started his breeding plan not long after the Council had overridden his vote and chased Sauron out of Dol Guldur. That was just after 2941. And only now was he reaping the benefits, after almost fifty years of breeding and cross breeding. Damn gestation lengths and damned time needed to reach maturity! He bred his stock as young as desirable traits became apparent but still it was such a long process. Damn women with the nine months, dammed orcesses with their six months, and damn the half breeds with their you-never-know-how-long-they-will-take in between! He gritted his teeth as he always did when he remembered that the ungrateful and uncooperative uruk hai females appeared to have averaged out at 32 weeks, and not the 30 he had planned for.

Oh, my Fighting Uruk Hai. It had been groping in the dark at first, there being so little known about half breeds of any sort. He quickly rejected elves – these were hard to come by, and willed themselves to death. Never got any offspring off them. Useless. Dwarrow were a different set of problems – and at all stages. The dwarrowdams - like elves difficult to obtain - took ages to conceive with males not of their own race – 15 months! (with Orcs; he had too few cases of conception with Man to draw statistically relevant conclusions). Dwarrow - these mercifully in plentiful supply - had their own set of issue, the main being that Dworcs took an unnaceptable twenty fives years to grow to combat readiness. For all their fighting prowess this would not do - Dworcs had to be abandoned. Women of Man averaged 3 months to conceive with Orcs, whereas Orc lasses in heat had a 11/12ths successful conception rate  - be it with Orc or Man.

Oh, my Fighting Uruk Hai. He experimented with both **Orc male with Man female** and **Man male and Orc female** couplings. He tried to impose scientific terminology – orc-men and man-orcs or, when these failed to catch on, half-orcs and half-men. But after two decades he himself finally succumbed to the use of the orcish term _honker_ for the offspring of Man male and Orc female couplings. The existence of this term pointed to that evidently there were more things in Arda than were dreamt of by the Istar. Even though differences between the two types of half breeds existed, these were more like "strong trends" than statistical certainties. He took a pinch of white crystals from an exquisite bowl – brought over from Valinor – put them on his tongue and washed down with wine. Ahhhh – that's the scientific way to stimulate one's brain - he decided - and not addling it with pipe weed like Mithrandir, or turning it into jelly with suspect mushrooms like the mush brained imbecile dwelling on the edges of Mirkwood did.

Oh, my Fighting Uruk Hai. The _honkers_ tended to be slightly larger and mannish looking, after their sires. The half orcs tended to be of slighter build, highly aggressive and vicious, again after their sires. Both types were generally sun resistant and with vestigial night vision. Smell was greatly impaired versus pure orcs in both types. At first glance _honkers_ had little going for them – half orcs were more aggressive and equally strong or sun resistant. Greater independence of mind, or simply slightly higher intelligence enabling greater cooperation between individuals made them more difficult to control whereas the half-orcs' backstabbing tendencies made keeping them in line as easy as orcs. However, this slightly higher intelligence and stronger mannish features - to the point of some individuals showing no signs of their dam's origin  – made them perfect for spy work. Their orc origin – in turn – made them amiable – even enthusiastic – about "sticky work".

Oh, my Fighting Uruk Hai. The half-orcs were a case of "almost there". A foot or so taller than orcs, sun resistant, yet almost as bloody minded and stupid as orcs. Intelligent enough to operate independently in groups, yet too stupid to rebel on a large scale. Not fully satisfied, he had continued to experiment. In too many cases breeding back with Man – sire or dam regardless – bred the orc out, producing stocky Man with slanted, light-brown eyes. A waste of effort. Breeding back with pure orcs – sires in particular – brought him to his private Valinor.

Oh, my Fighting Uruk Hai. It was the half-orc with orc combination which regularly produced most of the desired features. Big - meaning almost as big as men, broad of chest, thick of arm and thigh. Resistant to the sun, yet as bloody minded and almost stupid as orcs. The non-existent night vision and greatly impaired scent were a price he could pay. There were enough orcs around for night work. In short – the quarterlings retained the size of half orcs with just enough intelligence to be able to operate in company size at their own (as repeatedly proven by experiments with comparable results), yet reverted to Orc levels of aggression and brutality. Back biting was at just the right level to prevent rebellion, yet still enable groups of around one hindered to operate relatively efficiently.

Oh, my Fighting Uruk Hai. He then left the quarterlings to their own devices. They were allocated a section inside the Ring of Isengard and left there to lead their lives. They could breed amongst themselves as they wished. An interesting issue, maybe worthy of study at a later date, is that they drifted into organising themselves into families and children were raised by - he assumed - sire-and-dam pairings. At present, as long they produced more dams and soldiers he was content for them to multiply willy-nilly. The biggest or the most aggressive males got to breed the most anyway.  He was busy enough with the half-breeds of either mixing. Sometimes he added exceptionally large and aggressive half-orcs – or even _honkers_ – immediately to the Uruk group.

Oh, my Fighting Uruk Hai. Once he had fixed the "standard" of his Uruk Hai – as that is how he named them and by now everybody called them Uruks – he went back to half-breeds. He did not need so many breeding males and gelded a large number of them. All those which did not make the grade to be put immediately into the Uruk breeding pool, or too stupid to work as spies, were gelded and put to work. For curiosity he bred some half-orc males with _honker_ females and vice versa, but he had not yet reached any solid conclusions, so he kept it as a low-scale side project.

Oh, my Fighting Uruk Hai. Here he discovered the true value of _honker_ females – they were available faster than half-orc dams. An orc female, well fed and tended and prevented from nursing, could be counted to give birth and conceive again in an eight month cycle, producing three whelps inside two years. Mannish females never seemed to go down below a twelve month cycle on average. Two versus three whelps inside 24 months, a clear advantage. Over twelve years of breeding an orcess delivered 18 whelps versus 12 off a Man female. And orcesses had lower miscarriage rates too. He mated the widely available _honker_ girls with orcs to procure more quarterlings for the stable Uruk Hai pool. He thus alleviated the bottleneck of the breeding programme – wombs. That was the limiting factor, not studs. Those he could cull down to one per five, eight or even one per ten dams, and still get the results. Every lass was useful – be she half-orc or _honker_. He chuckled and hummed a hymn to Eru with some blasphemously twisted words:  
 _Every womb is sacred._  
 _Every womb is great._  
 _If a womb is wasted,_  
 _Sharku gets irate._

Oh, my Fighting Uruk Hai. Woe be the Orc or Man who had harmed a breeding female. Half-breed or woman of Man, all were to stay unharmed. Some of the women tried self harm and had to be protected from THAT. Through trial and error he established the most effective punishment to be impaling. By now he had trained a core of expert impalers and at least a day of agony on the stake was now the norm. If a guilty party could not be found, then decimation of the unit most likely to have harmed that female was the old favourite. With the sentence being performed by other unit members by clubbing. In many cases the very threat of this punishment finally made the unit produce a guilty party. He was no fool and unless it was one of the biggest orcs or men in the unit it did not buy the others clemency. And decimation was excellent entertainment for others – watching a decimated unit strive to reach its quota produced lots of cheering and bet placement among the onlookers.

Oh, my Fighting Uruk Hai. The orcs, men and geldings in the workshops produced armour and weapons for his uruks. He had lured artisans from Gondor and Rohan to produce high quality equipment. He did not want his creations to die from being looked at. He also brought in instructors. The Half-Elven Twins had illuminated him on the fact that orc swordsmanship was crap. Dunlending not much better. Here again he lured experts from civilised Mannish nations. These either cooperated or – same as unwilling artisans - were either coerced into cooperation or killed. Killing and eliminating unwilling ones was simpler in the long run.

Oh, my Fighting Uruk Hai. At a certain point he will be able to replace almost all Dunlendings and part of the orcs with Uruk Hai. Dunlendings were unreliable in general and shifty – getting silly notions and trying to run off with his breeders they "loved". Standard punishment for this offence was becoming warg food. Fugitive females if caught while bearing a half breed had their sentences deferred to the moment of birth.

Oh, my Fighting Uruk Hai. He longed to bring down the number of Orcs as these were too stupid and vicious to reliably work together in larger groups for a longer time and needed constant supervision. And they were not free of the ailment affecting the Dunlendings – running away with his dams. Interestingly, Orcs running off with women and Men running off with lasses were not so uncommon. One day he will go back to the primary data and correlate race of "runner" with the race of "dam" – there might be interesting dependencies there.

Oh, my Fighting Uruk Hai. He had been itching to use his creations. But he had too few of them. At present several score grown up quarterlings, just over a company. He was loath to reveal them before he had several thousand of them. He needed thousands to take on the Horse Lords. Yet besides new Uruks joining the ranks each year numbering in the low double digits, arms and armour production was also slow. Making mail hauberks was a labour and time intensive process. The crafting of quality helms and swords and all the other things to properly equip a warrior - all that took time. He sighed - according to his calculations he was to have three thousand Uruks around 3010.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was enlightened that it takes on average three months of tries to score a bun in the over result by the sage Annafan


	45. A skirmish. A woman's work is never done. Beware the Post!

2991, Spring, Dunland, to the south west of Fynon

The "bad" Dunlanders and the orcs were on the track from Trelik, which lay to the west of Fynon. It ran west to east at this section, until a spur branched off at right angles - due North - towards Fynon. A problem was that Aravir and his men were to the south of the path and had to allow the enemy to pass them before making their way towards Fynon. The ranger decided to move in parallel to the Wise Man's column through rough terrain. The runners, however, were to move down to the track and cross it once they were out of sight of the enemy's rearguard. He preferred too leave as little as possible to chance and sent three of the four runners he had, hoping that at least one will reach their destination on time. He kept one for his knowledge of the terrain.

They tried to stay abreast of the tithe gathering column trekking along the top of the ridge paralleling the path. It was hard and they slowly were falling behind. At the spur the column stopped and left ten orcs behind to guard the "tithes". The main body moved toward Fynon.

Aravir ordered the eight heavy infantrymen to descend from the ridge, cross the path before the spur, keeping out of sight of the tithes' escort, and march though the forest to the spur. The six bow equipped men (two rangers, two scouts, Caradoc and Rys) crept up towards the ten orcs and their prisoners. The son of Arador counted on the orcs' cantankerous nature. Indeed they did not have to wait long before one of the orcs wanted something from one of the women, to which both one of the orcs and the male "tithes" objected and within moments there was a noisy full scale scuffle. Aravir's group was almost on top of them before they noticed. They came with the sun at their backs, following the "attack the orc from the sun" maxim. The melee ended with eight orcs killed and two hightailing it to Isengard. Sadly one of the women had her throat slit in the confusion. A pity – so close to being freed.

The ex-tithes, armed with weapons liberated from the dead orcs were to follow the warriors. But they were instructed to take to the trees if they heard somebody coming. The archers jogged and quickly caught up with the heavies who had been marching and recovering from their exhausting clambering thorough the bushes. They now jogged all together, straight towards Fynon. They heard the horn calling to defend the village while fifteen minutes walking distance still out. They picked up the pace.

When they exited the woods two hundred yards from the gate the battle was on. The "bad" Dunlendings were using a tree trunk to demolish the gate, covered by weak archer fire from the orcs. Some of the orcs helped the assault group by throwing rocks at the defenders. Another group of orcs was climbing the wall by the simple method of one orc standing on the shoulders of another, with a third clambering over them to get inside. Some awful howls could be heard from behind the palisade in that area.

Aravir ordered his men to slow down to a walk. Their chests were heaving and legs felt heavy. He could not help the latter, but he hoped that they'd bring their breathing down to normal before the melee.

Seeing them approach the commander of the Isengard troop ordered his men and orcs to abandon the assault on the gate and break out. The direct route led through the Company. The javelins – as per standing orders – were cast at the men, more dangerous in melee than orcs. And a brutal hand to hand fight erupted some eighty yards from the gate. The Isengarders did not break through, but as there more of them some ran around the "Numenors". Once Gwion, leading the Dunlanders from the village, joined the fight, the skirmish was as good as over. Some orcs and "bad" Dunlanders surrendered, most were killed, a few managed to run away.

The company lost one of the scouts during the melee. The village – eight dead men (three killed outside the village, before the gate was closed) and one woman. The dead woman was killed by the two orcs who had scaled the palisade and caused some mischief before women with pitchforks and scalding water got them. The wounded were many.

()()()()()()()()()()()()

2991, Spring, Isengard, the Ring

Tegan waddled up to the new arrivals. This lot were from the areas nearest to Isengard. Just like her village – one of the first to ally itself to the Wise Man. She preferred the orc name – Sharku – simpler. She sized up the new girls and women. Not that there would be a face she'd knew, too many years had passed. But some patterns of dress, of adornment of dresses, of jewellery – that identified an area one came from. That was what she was looking for. She might find somebody from home or a neighbouring village and catch up on the news.

It was her lucky day! There was no mistaking that dialect! The details of clothing also matched perfectly! Oh, it was the trembling and red eyed little thing. A wonder that they took such a short one for a breeder, Sharku liked them big. Must've been the hips – broad as the Gap of Rohan she was, easier to jump over than ran around.

"Ya from somewhere near Dyfan?"

She could see that the girl relaxed a bit.

"Yup, from Gast."

That was the neighbouring village!

"Welcome homey." She hoped she'd like the girl. She was a bit homesick. The other girls from her area were either dead or had moved into other jobs. Of those taken from south Dunland some ten, fifteen years she was the last with the breeders. The ones she was left with were wussies and spoke funny.

Taking the newcomer by the hand she led her towards the dormitories.

"I'll get ya a nice and cosy cot. The new ones always gets the worst ones, but I'll set ya up with a nice one."

She chatted with her to ease her up. Name turned out to be Haf. The young one suddenly grabbed her hand and asked in a timid yet demanding voice:

"What will happen to me? What .. what does a breeder do?"

Tegan chuckled.

"Been scaring the shit out of ya? Telling you shit, eh? On top of the orcshit dunderheads spread about in the villages?"

The girl nodded earnestly.

"Most of it is just stupid stories to scare the shit out of ya and to give old timers a chuckle at yar fright, like the ones old biddies tell ya about how horrible it is the first time a bloke sticks his cock into ya. Being a breeder is less work than being a wife on the farm back home. An orc fucks ya for a week or two, just enough to get ya preggers, and not the whole year round like yar man does. And when ya're preggers nobody boinks ya if ya don't wanna. Ya work less and there's no working in the fields in the last three months." The girl started to relax.

"Ya a maid?" she changed the subject

A nod.

"I'll try to get ya one of the gentler ones. After ten years I get to know people, see? The studs ain't selected for their brains, ya know. Big and strong and brutal and bright like a milling stone. But after a couple of floggings after hurting a bint the brighter ones learn to be brutal only when jerking orf."

hurrhurr

"How long?" Haf interjected.

Tegan's look hardened.

"Don't dream of doing a runner. Nobody manages to run orf – Sharku sends the wargs after them. Ever seen a warg? Wolves bigger than the biggest dog you've seen. And as smart as the studs! And the bastards riding them are the blackest hearted little pieces of shit that ever walked Arda! See, they are runts and everybody kicks them about. But on a warg they are somebody and make everybody pay for every poke in the eye and scuff in the ear they ever got. Vicious little cunts. Bring back some bloody scraps at best. Ya're a breeder for fifteen years or until ya drop twelve half-breed brats. Get used to that thought"

She patted her belly.

"That's the tenth, three more months now. I'm on light detail already, since yesterday. If ya survive the birthings, the miscarriages, the sicknesses – after ya stop being a breeder ya are put to other work. There's nursing the hordes of brats, there's cooking, there's washing, there's sewing, there's gardening, there's milking, there's is no work a woman can't be put to. Ya'll long to yar breeder days yet. Still better than the farm back home. Very few girls wish to go back. After some fifteen, mebbe sixteen years - as that's the average time to pop those dozen balaak - there's nothing to go back to."

Tegan gave Haf yet another pat on the arm.

"It ain't so bad here. Compared with the farm and my man there, less work and less beatings, I get fucked less and get fed better. What's a girl not to like?"

()()()()()()()()()()()()

2991, Dunland, Fynon

Aravir was sitting by the stream at the washing stones, idly watching dragonflies skim the surface of the water. He allowed himself to dream of the future. The sight of Angarad - this site had reminded him of her - running around Fynon the year before had unlocked a biter-sweet longing in his heart. Of finding a safe place for his wife and children. In Fynon everybody knew that she was an "arf orc" that Aled had brought from the mountains. Everybody knew yet she seemed accepted, by adults and children alike. Or simply did not care that she was not fully Mannish.

Her case and the tale of the half-orc smith made him wonder and ask questions to which he would never find answers. How many such Angarad's had there been across the ages? How many such smiths? How much orc blood was there in Dunlendings and how much mannish blood in the orcs of the southern Misty Mountains. Had the same process occurred in the north? Was there mannish blood in Ashtuzual? He pushed those questions aside. Too big for him. Not for here and now.

Here and now he saw a chance for happiness and safety. Although Staddle had bought the lie about the Curse, or simply did not care, there were the itinerant dwarves, elves, uninitiated Rangers, etc. to worry about. He'd be loath to let his offspring play in the street with other children fearing some bow- or sword-happy passer by from out of town. For some time now he had been thinking about moving out of Staddle. The question was where? To a house, a manor even, in the middle of nowhere? And now he was fairly sure he had found the answer to this. It would be a manor next to a Dunlending village. Besides Fynon breaking itself up into two or three villages, the coming of the Wise Man's mannish troops and orcs to collect tithes should produce runners from the other three villages as well. They had a third choice, a choice not given to the villages to the south – they could run away.

And if they ran then he would take them in, organise into a village or two and lead the life of a Dunlending chieftain. He smiled at the thought that he could tease his Dark Flower, threatening to take an Underwife, as was befitting his position. His mood darkened. What had befallen his wife? He knew from listening in on conversation between older rangers, with longer marriage histories than his, talking about women getting all sorts of twisted after miscarriages or stillbirths. Had he listened more attentively ... – he sighed. Being pushed away hurt. He wondered if he could talk with any of the women here about it? Better not ...

Rys had warned him about the belief that a Numenor giving a woman something to drink would make her miscarry. Had his ancestors given intentionally purged Dunlending women to help clear the land of natives and facilitate exploitation of local timber? He shuddered at the thought. Hopefully it was pure superstition. Maybe talking with the women was also linked to some superstition so he'd better not pay the women too much attention. Oh, how he longed to talk with Inzilbeth! Or his mother ...

He went back to the idea of a manor. The Lokator even had found a suitable site. The ruins there suggested that before the fall of Cardolan it could have been a manor of some fearless borderland noble, or the headquarters of a larger unit, hence the fields and pastures to lower maintenance costs. Some things were eternal ... Harnor and Marmadas had agreed that he'd need up to a dozen servants to keep things tidy and hire freeholders or their servants for the harvest. He wondered about such a life. Lord of the manor ...

The funniest thing is that he could have been leading such a life for years. Although Rangers in theory were subject to life-long service, this was impractical. Somebody HAD to stay home and tend the farm, even though this role often was borne by widows and teenage sons. After he had inherited his mother's dowry lands he could have retired from service to supervise his estates. But he was too high born for that. He was the Heir why hadn't Aragorn announced his renouncement? And that came with obligations. He had to show leadership from the front. Now, that Aragorn was actively leading the Dunedain, his complete retirement from service would only be frowned upon and not outrageous. Leading his own company was odd, but still acceptable. And he could lead such a company out of a manor just as well as he presently did out of an ex-Hobbit smial in Staddle.

Still, for someone of his station, and his forty years of campaigning notwithstanding, expectations were to keep taking to the field until he was a hundred. Unless he married and tend to his estates and raised Isildur's heirs. Then retirement at his young age of sixty was acceptable. He put his head in his hands. Sometimes his family life made him feel that he was trying to square the wheel. A manor did seem tempting nonetheless, in winter the smial felt very cramped, even with most of the "boys" living in the "den" on the premises.

He got up and went to village. He had to talk with Gwion about what he had learnt from interrogating the prisoners. He also wanted the Chief's advice on what to do with the prisoners – he would have them all killed - the simplest solution - but maybe Dunlending practices were different. And they would have to start planning to move the whole village this year – on that they had agreed immediately, conferring while still covered in warm blood after the fight.

()()()()()()()()()()()()

2991, late spring, Breeland, Staddle, "The Den" at Goat Run 2

Young Ranger Batcry found the smial he was to deliver letters to. He stood impatiently in the glare of the low, yet still harsh sun. He squinted to be able to see anything. After a long time waiting and knocking he heard a muffled female voice – "Coming! Coming!" – and the door finally opened. In the darkness of the opening, about four feet above the ground, he saw red orc eyes glaring at him. He inhaled in surprise and then instinct took over – he draw and thrust his knife. To his horror he heard her say:

"Le hannon, mellon ... "

and saw the red glare drop down and disappear.

He stood as a statue, looking at the red blood dripping off his blade. His eyes adapted and he saw a small body laying face down on the floor. He dropped his knife. He had murdered a child of the Dunedain! A girl!

A moment later he heard a roar:

"DU BEKAR!"

Batcry was too devastated to defend himself from the blows.

.

AN:

"Le hannon, mellon - thanks, buddy

"DU BEKAR!" - I've seen this used in other fics as "To arms!" ("Attack!") in Khuzdul, the langauge of the Dwarrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN:
> 
> "Le hannon, mellon - thanks, buddy


	46. Therapy, courting, resettling, scheming

Spring 2991, Breeland, Staddle, "The Den" at Goats Run 2

The knife wound had made her lose lots of blood. Striking out blindly the inexperienced Ranger had hit her above the heart – that saved her. After a week of being unconscious Ashtuzual regained awareness. She groaned and wept at the disappointment of being alive. Gudrun, wiping a tear of relief when nobody could see it, immediately began her therapy. After a week of having half raw meat stuffed down her throat Ashtuzual felt much better physically. Yet her silence and brooding finally made Gudrun notice that feeding her to bursting did not improve her mood. Feeling powerless the dwarrowdam went for help.

Edelweiss (that's Goodwife Edelweiss Busybody to you!) seated herself on the bed and faced her. She gave her a jug to drink – the orcess sniffed – Goatweed with honey. She downed the jug.

"Why? Goatweed is used to ease the weight on the stomach after eating too much lard or fat meat?" – she instinctively asked about healer lore.

"I also give it to silly bints who think their life has ended after they loose a child or birth a dead one or malformed one."

"I birthed a monster ..." the Lady Lothiriel whispered.

"For silly bints, for silly bints like you", Edelweiss repeated.

"So, now be so kind and explain what all the mumbling during your fever about being „not good enough", about „holding back", „nice Dunedan girl", „sprogs' a burden", „he deserves better", „a clean slate", „orc filth", „run away", „won't suffer", and „ _tark lob shauk_ " was supposed to mean?"

At the last quote Ashtuzual paled and her eyes widened.

„Yes, I now know what that means. I've set by your bedside, with my arms around little Angarad, after I caught her eavesdropping and listening and UNDERSTANDING your ramblings. We listened to you make noises like snarling dogs, with the girl tensing in my arms and then weeping, saying that she doesn't understand everything, but that you are very unhappy and you want to make Aravir happy and that you hate her and that you want to do awful things to the children and that your husband should remarry once you are gone. That master Aravir should FINALLY marry somebody worthy of him. What nonsense, girl." – she shook her ahead over the silliness.

"I had to give Angarad draughts to make her sleep. She woke up wailing for several nights afterwards."

The orcess was looking at the wall, guilt choking her throat.

"So yes, I know what language you were speaking. Angarad broke down and told me."

Ashtuzual kept her face turned away.

Edelweiss sighed.

"LOOK AT ME" – she snarled. Ashtuzual jumped up and whipped her face towards the hobbitess and cowered under her gaze of molten brass.

The midwife inclined her body forward to look into the orcess' eyes:

"I've known you for eight years, Ashtuzual" – she pronounced the name slowly, evidently not yet familiar with it – "and if you are a _htol-snaga_ [again the hesitant pronunciation] then I consider myself to be lucky to know that _snaga_ , and honoured to be able to call her my friend."

Ashtuzual looked at her with blank, uncomprehending eyes. She refused to think about what she had just heard.

"Leave me alone." - she whimpered. "Please, leave me alone."

Edelweiss sighed. This was going to be a long talk. A good thing she had made the pot of tea and brought to the bedroom.

"Those teary eyes might have worked on your husband, but I'm a wily old biddy and I'm unmoved."

"So, where shall we start – who is not good enough, not good enough for what – or for whom, and finally – WHY?"

"Tea?" – the midwife pointed towards the tray on the side table.

()()()()()()()()

Batrcy had lost track of time in the darkness of the cellar. He was fed and his bucket replaced twice a day. As his bruising and all cuts and welts had cured some time ago. A fortnight at least. Three sennights? Today, together with stew and clean bucket, he got good news.

"You will live. The Lady Lothiriel regained consciousness".

The young ranger felt relief. He had NOT murdered the child after all. And eventually he'd be freed – as he had been promised death if she died.

"But you are staying until the Master comes to judge you."

()()()()()()()()

2991, Spring, Dunland, Fynon and neighbourhood.

The interrogation of the prisoners did not produce much new information. The leader was dead and there were no papers on him to read – all instructions had been verbal. With all the officers dead or running away, they could only conjecture about any additional orders beyond the obvious – enforcing "alliance" and collection of tithes – the group might have had.

They debated how long did they have before the next strike. On one end was the time needed for the news of the defeat to reach the south of Dunland, and the Wise Man to send a new, beyond doubt larger, force to get the job done properly. Such a round trip should take about six weeks.

_What was Saruman doing, if such a power has grown at his front door. Surely the Istari did more just gaze at stars? He had been given the keys to Orthank to protect Rohan, among other things, yet Dunland was close to becoming united under a revanchist banner ..._

The Ranger and Gwion agreed this to be the latest they would be attacked. They better abandon everything within six weeks or less. If the Wise Man – called Sharku by their orc prisoners - had a loose command structure, or independence of juniors was encouraged, then any other tithe collecting force from the south or centre of Dunland could move against them immediately. A week or two. But – although this was some wishful thinking on their part – it would be of similar size to the force they had faced and defeated.

"Barely defeated, Numenor" Gwion emphasised

"Aye." Aravir had no intention to dispute this point. The Dunlander spoke the truth - barely.

The orc prisoners were killed by enthusiastic villagers, although quite quickly. The captured Dunlendings were given a choice – to join or to return to Sharku. A few chose the latter. Gwion was delighted – this way the Wise Man knew that the whole village later was implicated – nobody could stay as they could not claim innocence of resistance or orc killing.

Aravir had left the interrogation to Gwion who did not follow up mentions of "big tower". It was logical for a leader to rule from some sort of fortification – so Sharku had a tower, big deal.

The first group of exiles, for want of better terms, was to leave in a week. The second, final and larger group, in five weeks. Harvest be damned.

Shorty immediately dispatched a courier to inform Lothiriel about the latest developments and decisions, with request for her to arrange for a second group of workers to begin work on a second site, immediately to the south of the Midgemarsh. This was to make use of proximity to material – reeds and clay. The number of provisions was to be tripled. Hence additional letters to Bilbo and the Lord of Brandyhall – Bree was not likely to supply such quantity of food, at least not at reasonable prices. The Shire and Buckland had a surplus which could be moved to the east of Bree in reasonable time and at like cost.

Aravir left the heavy infantrymen at Fynon. They had proven to be almost impregnable to orcs and Dunlendings, as long as they kept their front. They needed their flanks guarded, though. These orcs and Dunlendings simply were not trained to overcome them – how to cope with their large shields, with their heavy hauberks. Their sabres were designed for slashing up bare flesh, or quilted or leather armour. Caradoc was left at Fynon commanding the "heavies", the best fighters left there – if they failed in their role of stiffening the villagers against attack, then everybody would be dead or enslaved.

Gwion with a small retinue, Aravir with Rys and the remaining scout went on a tour of the neighbourhood. To Trelik and Wyngyl, the two villages to the South-west. Trelik was not larger than Fynon, same size, actually, but was the local centre due to housing the clan chieftain and having a blacksmith. Wyngyl had about 30 families. Sarwen, the village nearest to the mountains, was the smallest, with some 25 families. As it lay in the other direction a runner was sent there, informing of the appearance of the tithe gatherers, and an invitation for the chief to visit Fynon in two weeks' time.

The other chiefs' did not see cause for alarm, let alone resettling – in Trelik the view was that they had paid the tribute and thus that they had things fixed with the Wise Man until the next tithe was due. They had paid, hadn't they? The argument that the tithe had not reached Sharku and they'll be forced to pay again fell on death ears. Nonetheless Rys convinced his brother and a few other kinsmen to defect. The family of the cousin serving as tithe was particularly eager to go, after spending all their coin on a curse on the chieftain with the village witch. All in all four families abandoned Trelik for life in Breeland.

At Wyngyl Aravir was not allowed inside the palisade. Numenors were not welcome, period. The chief said that they will pay the tribute and thus be left alone. Fynon had angered the Wise Man, this is Gwion's problem, a just reward for consorting with Numenor sorcerers.

Sarawen's chief – who refused to stay in the same room as the Numenor – called first claim on the abandoned site of Fynon. In return – on Aravir's demand – he was to let go anybody who wanted to resettle. Fed up with Dunlendings making signs of protection against Evil! at the very sight of him the Ranger did not go to the mountainside village, leaving that to Gwion and Rys. Although there had been fisticuffs – when teenagers of either sex volunteered to leave without their fathers' consent – the deal was observed to the letter. Gwion offered not to torch the buildings at Fynon nor the crops in the fields before leaving, although he could not guarantee what Sharku's flying column would do – this helped in treaty interpretation. Before the second column left Rys visited the three villages again, telling those who wished to hear what to do if they wished to join the new settlements in the North. Somewhere between a dozen and score of highlanders joined the second column.

The courier retuning with news from Staddle made Aravir froth at the mouth. He wished to be THERE immediately. But as the letter from Gudrun stated that Ashtuzual was on the mend he grit his teeth and escorted the column across the empty lands between the South Downs and the Mitheithel (Hoarwell). It was only once they reached those hills that Aravir abandoned the re-settlers and sped on to Staddle. The reunion between man and wife was joyful, tearful and emotional.

()()()()()()()()

2991, The Angle, Sirbrith.

Helgon felt sidelined and irritated. With the harvest in, winter setting, he had less work to do than usual. His sisters had descended on the family estate and taken over wedding preparations. They demanded various silly things of him, told him he was even denser now than he had been eighty years ago. Grrrr. They wrenched the running of Sirbrith from him. Once his wife had died, and the housekeeper a few years later, he had managed the household by himself. What was there to run anyway? There was him and his five sons, plus a few fosterling boys. Plus the necessary servants. What "household" was there to run? Food and laundry – that's all. For the feasts the neighbours chipped in with their servants, happy to make use of his spacious hall. And now his sisters were shouting that the rooms locked twenty or thirty years ago needed to have the floors washed. What for? A dusting and an airing and "job's a good'un" – as the farmers said.

As far as he was concerned the only people - besides himself and his sons – not going bonkers over the wedding was the Miron fellow and his wife. They had dropped by to ask what they could do to help with the preparations. Aragorn had hinted at a double wedding – of Almarian and Elwing – and what the Chieftain hinted at he got. Especially if the cost was negligible. This way Tarkil's younger daughter got a wedding which she'd never would have had otherwise. Helgon didn't mind – he liked parties. And happy women made for good parties.

But his sisters were driving him mad. Chamberpots – he fumed. This time it was chamber pots. He was TOLD to order a gross and SHOUTED at after suggesting to dig a latrine for the wedding feast. Supposedly that would not do. Humpf! At least the Miron fellow and his wife agreed with him that the deficit of potatoes – which they happily agreed to cover – was more important than the lack of napkins. What was wrong with old swaddling?

He thought about Olon with envy. The boy had bolted to the Tarkil's immediately after coming home from ranging, barely saying hello. Youth in love ... he smiled. If anything "happened" between them he'll gladly accept that the baby was early and make up stories how his family had a history of first borns being early dating back to Isildur or thereabouts. With enough wine in him he'd back date it to Numenor or Belleriand, even. He idly wondered how Tarkil was faring with his chaperoning.

()()()()()()()()()()

2991, Autumn, Angle, Tarkil's residence and environs

Tarkil had a dilemma. This day he was chaperoning Almarian. Olon had done his ranging for this year and came to spend time with his beloved. Escaping the marriage preparations might have had something to do with it. Ciwon vel "Strawberry" was lurking somewhere around the house, stalking an eager to be caught Elwing.

He eyed the pair, holding hands and limiting themselves to pecks on the cheek. Forcing to limit themselves to that, by the looks of it. He recalled his own courtship. He smiled at memory of Aravir - the most inattentive chaperone ever. And that lazy bum lasted at the job exactly one sennight. After seven days of following them with the vigour of a fart on a windless day the next morning – Day 60 or so before the wedding – he led them under a big tree.

"Inzilbeth Araviriell, do you take Tarkil Aithonion as husband?" – startled and fearful of this being some trick question Inzilbeth had given his forearm a death grip and croaked:

"Yes!"

"Tarkil Aithonion, do you take Inzilbeth Araviriell as wife?" – Tarkil was prepared by now.

"Yes!"

"Good. You are married. May the Valar bless you. It's nice being the Heir" he had chuckled. "Don't cause a scandal before the wedding feast. Inzilbeth – you know what to do – he treats you bad, I beat him to pulp. Pick me up on the way back from your walk. Nice shade here. Shoo!"

He had been taught to give back all received kindness onto others. With a chaperone like that, how could he hover over his daughters like some gaoler? He counted the days to the wedding – 59. He smiled and caught up with them. He separated them and – having forced himself into the middle - put his arms over their shoulders.

"I have a tale of courtship to tell ... "

()()()()()()

Inzilbeth was weeping in the kitchen. And it was not the onions. Her daughters were getting married! Maybe one was not making the best of matches, but he was a good boy. And they loved each other. The brightness and joy in their eyes when they talked about their betrothed made her cry with joy over the happiness of her daughters again. Finding men whom they loved and who loved them. And were not pawed at whim by brutes like she had been. She sighed - she'll have to have The Talk with them soon. Wiping her tears away she looked around the kitchen. Wasn't Elwing supposed to bring the potatoes from the cellar?

In the cellar Elwing groaned with pleasure. While she rubbed Ciwon's rigid manhood through his breeches, he was caressing her breast and alternatively kissing and licking her neck, the hollow of her neck and sensitive skin over her collarbone. She ground her crotch against his toned-hard thigh ...

()()()()()()()()()()

2991, Autumn, The Great East Road, Amon Sul

Riding home Helgon was absolutely certain - Aravir was off his rocker. He was glad that he had made this trip on the pretext of getting to know his daughter's in law grand-father. A lame excuse, he knew, but he was ready to murder his sisters. He needed to get away, for a fortnight even, and Inzilbeth's foster father's stature glossed over most of the lameness of the excuse. A heartbeat away from the chieftainship, as they said.

But was mad! Not in some dangerous, deranged, frothing at the mouth way, but his delusions and oddities were of an incredible magnitude. Bedding an orc and considering her to be his WIFE. Elven curse his arse. Even if he had chuckled like a teen over the tale. Having half a dozen brats with her and considering the whole pack his LEGITIMATE children. Planning to live the life of some barbarian warlord, in a fortified building surrounded by Haladin and Dunlending retainers. Or maybe he was fantasising about being – whatshisname – Blog? Borg? Bolg? – the orc leader killed at the Battle of Dale? What next? Raising wargs? A temple to Melkor? All that was more than enough to call off the wedding, regardless of the hurt to Olon, regardless of the hurt to Almarian, the sweet and bright girl she was. It would break his heart to do it ...

But ... but ... he had to admit, Almarian was NOT a blood relation, so there was no danger of his eventual grandchildren suddenly gnawing on chair legs when their gums itched, or ripping puppies apart to relax. And Aragorn – one of the most observant people he'd ever met – MUST know of his uncle's condition yet still kept him as heir. Also, Aravir's adoption is legal AND the Chieftain acknowledges it and makes it clear that he considers Inzilbeth and her family part of the ruling family. In inheritance terms meaningless, but socially very meaningful.

The chieftain still accepted him, regardless of Aravir finding carnal pleasure with an orcess. Still better than with a man, though. Or was it? He was completely baffled with the whole situation. The chieftain's uncle and Heir is off his rocker yet the otherwise highly competent and smart chieftain does NOTHING. Neither disowns the uncle, nor locks him up, nor forces to send away the orcess ... What a pity about Aravir – such an intelligent, well spoken man, with such deep and insightful opinions on many matters, yet so deluded about others.

The next day, still on the road and heading home, it hit him – Aravir MUST had renounced his claim. This was inferred by the celeste orbed ranger's surprise – or lack of interest - when asked about matters which an heir should know about or be interested in. But Aragorn could NOT disown Aravir's claim. Not openly.

Helgon snorted - Disowning Aravir would produce a pilgrimage route between the Angle and Breeland. His peers or those fancying themselves to be his peers would flock to Staddle to sound out Aravir's position, maybe ingratiate themselves with him to be in his good books if he went against Aragorn? Regardless of Aravir's disinterest in the chieftain's position.

He shook his head in admiration of Aragorn's cunning – keeping his crazy – or maybe not crazy, just eccentric – uncle away, yet not raising interest in him. He rubbed his hands with glee - there was a wedding to look out to! Olon will be sooo happy!

AN:

Tark lob shauk – a wife of Numenorian descent

Htol-snaga – sex-slave


	47. The Watchfull Peace Decade

2991-3002, Great Breeland area, the newly settled lands of the Tudesgryn, Eriador in general

 

The knifing had been the last straw for Aravir. He immediately wrote to his dwarrow friends in the Blue Mountains to find him a construction team for next year’s building season. He also wrote to Harad, commissioning him to lay out the manor's lands. Yet another letter to the Angle instructed his steward to sell off most of his lands. Quietly and in chunks, with current leaseholders getting right of first refusal.

The dwarrow had the expertise, while ample Dunlending unskilled labour provided the power. Some of the tasks usually performed by animals or with mechanical contraptions were done by purely human muscle power instead. This gave the settlers coin which they could use to pay off debts taken upon to equip their farms, or to buy what they needed outright. All the labour intensive work was done in 2992, with some stonework being carried over into 2993.

 

 The buildings of the manor were divided into the Lower and Upper House. The Lower House, surrounded by a “wet” moat, was flush with the terrain. It was enclosed by a palisade some eight feet high. The buildings inside served as stables, barn, some living quarters, smithy. A mix of larger and smellier or noisier facilities. It could, in time of danger, harbour the whole village, even if in "pig sty" conditions. Such emergencies were expected to be short lived, however.

The debris from moat digging was used to bring up the level of the land used for the Upper House, raising it some six feet above the surrounding terrain. The two parts of the manor were connected by a stone bridge over the dividing moat. The road over the bridge led into the gatehouse tower, raising one storey above the stone wall. This stone wall, of some ten feet, ran from the ends of the Big House - which occupied the whole southern side of the mound – to the moat dividing the two parts, where it turned at right angles inwards and completed the enclosure at the gatehouse tower.

The artificial hill bore the Big House itself, a three storey building, with a thick walled ground floor with slits, with true windows on the upper two floors. A side benefit of a building constructed on higher ground were the usually dry cellars, as their floors were more or less at the same level as the top of the water in the moat. Most of the ground floor was used by the kitchen and the Hall. The first floor contained the rooms of the master’s family, in the south east corner. The south west corner, in turn, was mostly given over to the solar. This was the best illuminated and sun-warmed room in the whole building. There was a gap between the two sectors, making the centremost section of the Hall two levels high. This gave an impression of space and gave access to natural lighting for the noon meal from the south facing first storey windows. A gallery along the courtyard wall connected the two sections of the first floor.

The first floor jutted outwards above the first, thus increasing the distance between the ground and the windows, due to the downwards sloped glacis beginning at the wall itself. The overhang over the moat was used for outhouses. And to allow bowmen to shoot along the North-South running walls. Murder holes were provided in appropriate locations. A much lower second floor of the Big House had rooms for servants, children, and suchlike riffraff.

 

The wall of the Upper House was intended to keep intruders more by its presence than by being defended by a warrior stationed every two yards along its length, hence – although there was a step half way off the ground – there were no battlements over the parapet. There were two small wooden towers on top of the stone wall in the northern corners, with battlements, the idea being for sentries to patrol the whole northern wall, passing above the gate, and with some view to the south.

Along most of its length the inside of the enclosure’s wall served as part of servants’ or guests’ houses, or various sorts of storage rooms. The roofs of those buildings also served – if necessary – as lookout points. The centre of the Upper House was an open yard.

 

()()()()()()()()()()

2991, the Mark

Unbeknownst to the denizens of the Angle or Greater Breeland, in this year great festivities were held in Aldburg. A male-child had been born to the latest scion of Eofor, the youngest grandson of Eorl the Young - Eomund - on one side, and – Theodwyn - the daughter of Thengel King and his Gondorian wife Morwen, of purest Numenorian lineage, on the other. The consensus among those cooing over the infant was that once a golden down graces his cheeks and upper lip, when a curly carpet covers the sculpted chest and lower belly ( _and rock hard bum_ ) of the hazel eyed and golden haired infant – he will be a maiden swooner to go down in legend.

 

()()()()()()()()()()()

2991

Rys had changed. Or had been changed by the events of 2990 and 2991. To Aravir’s eyes he no longer acted the mercenary but showed signs of turning into a Ranger. Or maybe a Dunlending elderman or chief. Apparently the well being of Eriador was too abstract a concept for him. Same as that of a random Haladin village. But the welfare of the folk of Fynon or Trelik did interest him. Mulling it over the wetchet eyed Ranger decided that one might consider this to be quite natural. Rys was a Dunlander and cared about things Dunlander related. Whereas the Dunedain considered the whole of Eriador to be their playground, their inheritance, and thus with broader mental coverage. He turned his thoughts to Caradoc for comparison. On one hand a Breelander, who were as parochial as can be. On the other, Breelanders had the memory of being part of some large Kingdom (the name of which they no longer knew). They also sat at the centre of whatever trade routes still remained in Eriador, and could correlate their welfare with those of their trade partners. Or maybe it was an individual issue - in which case his musings were not worth a pig's fart.

After the second wave of the population of Fynon had been led to their destination, Rys set off on a self designed mission. Aravir swelled in pride at his plan. Together with four volunteers from amngst the Haladin, and Gwion’s youngest – Iolo, they took a cart of food and utensils to set up a winter station in the ruins of Tharbad and look out for refugees from Dunland.

 

()()()()()()()()()()

Backstory

Those four northernmost villages were of the clan of the Three Arrows. It was a new clan. The flooding associated with the thaw after the Fell Winter of 3011-12 had devastated Dunland as well. Flooding caused by water running over ice blocked thalweg of streams, rivulets and rivers, as well as mudslides – this had washed away entire villages. Whole areas were left desolated and uninhabited. A few years later enterprising souls from the Wolverine and Mountain Goats clans began exploring the area along the Glanduin. With no recent feuds between the two, the explorers peacefully mixed and turned into settlers and funded the villages of Trelik, Wyngwyl and Fynon. Due to distance and associated travel issues - plus hailing from two different clans - in the early twenties the settlers established themselves as the Three Arrows clan, from the fact that there were three villages. The fourth, Sarawen, was established by a mixture of “locals” and a new inflow from the south in the thirties.

 

The Dunlendings who had resettled to east of Breeland adopted the name Broken Bone – as they were a bone broken off the body of Dunland. And called the area Tudesgryn.

 

()()()()()()()

Back to current events – Dunland 2991 and later

 

The punitive expedition sent out after the defeat of the spring tithe gathering column was of an impressive size. One hundred Orcs and fifty Men. They collected the tithe from Wyngwyl but missed Sarawen, getting lost in the wooded foothills. At Trelik the explanation that a tithe had been paid already was accepted with a shrug and a “shit happens” comment. This made the credibility of Gwion and his Numenorian master reach midden level.

The expedition burned the abandoned buildings of Fynon, to show it could could, but did not bother with the crops. The good people of Sarawen almost killed themselves bringing in two harvest - and from a  village twice their size. But this bought them food security for several years.

The leniency towards tithes of Saruman’s commander was simple - they had run into a group of Umbarian slavers and – well – enslaved them. He remembered his fears as a child of being sold to men like them and was very happy to bring them back to Isengard in such character. Better them than fellow Dunlanders from that dump in the north – what was it – Tree-Lick? Although the male to female ratio of the tithe did not match what he was supposed to bring back, this could be fudged. He had a slave above the quota to pass over to the Orc keeping the records to ease proceedings.

Spared by the Dunlander in charge of the punitive column the Three Arrows were not spared by the Three Fangs clan. In 2994 these raided Fynon for captives to hand over to the Wise Man as their tithe, thus protecting their own. This led to clashes and abductions between the Three Arrows and the Three Fangs. Aravir could sooner forbid the Moon to rise than order Gwion not to respond to pleas of help from Trelik.

The cynical part of him even approved – such forays did not weaken the Broken Bone, yet were an outlet for the hot headed to let off some steam. In other words – while level headed Dunlendings protected their settlements between the Weather Hill and the South Downs - the Tudesgyrn, their sons – instead of getting into mischief with Bree or the local Dunedain Holds – were letting off excessive energy in north Dunland. He often sent his men along too. Turmoil INSIDE Dunland meant fewer raids into Eriador. And this mixed force sought clashes with orcs wherever possible. Yet another gain were the refugees which they occasionally brought along. Rys – who invariably commanded his contingent – was happy to add them to Aravir’s or his own lands.

Aravir still patrolled the Lone Lands with his retinue - with Dunlendings gradually replacing the Haladin in his service.

In autumn 3002, after eighteen years of exemplary service, Caradoc retired to his family in Breeland. Tesni wept with happiness - no more summers worrying about her husband in the Lone Lands.

()()()()()()()()()()

2995, the Mark

Slightly less boisterously than three years previously, Aldburg celebrated the birth of another child to their Lordships. A girl-child this time. The old biddies cooing over the infant ( _and old coots pretending not to_ ) all prophesised that with her fine golden hair and light built she will be renowned for her weaving and cooking. Maybe dancing as well. But with such weak bones no lifting or waving heavy things about for her ...

 

()()()()()()()()()()

2992-3002, Krikayrau (little castle in Dunlending).

The two villages populated by resettled Fynonians thrived, one under Gwion, the other under his edlest son Tadag. The first across the road from the Forsaken Inn, the second across the road from Midgewater Marsh. Six miles apart. A third village was built immediately south of the first, again six miles south of the Forsaken Inn. This one took in settlers from Sarawen and Trelik. Here the chief was the son of the chief of Trelik - Padrau. His third son by his second underwife. And – what in this case counted most – he was Rys’ brother in law. After two years of persuasion Aravir’s lieutenant brought his kinsmen – and sister – north.

Aravir’s fortified manor – the Krikayrau, as it was named by the Dunlanders, and the name had stuck – lay three miles to the west of the Forsaken Inn. And three miles to the south of the Great East Road, located in manner making it invisible from the road. The last thing its owner wanted was to have some strays drift in from the road. A small village started to grow just outside the Lower House, mostly of Dunlendings picked up by Rys in Tharbad, but some Big Folk Breelanders fleeing the Land Famine too.

\-------------------------

Gwion, your people don’t mind? Isn’t it the same story of Numenors making bad use of Dunlanders all over again?”

“Naaa.” Gwion protested vehemently.

“We know what they ran away from. And had it not been for you they’d be dead in the Lone Lands, or slaves in some Orc den or Haladin village. They should be grateful to you and kissing your boots one day a week until the day they die. And you are too good for them. A week of corvee per oxgang a year? That is ridiculously low.”

 

()()()()()()()()()()()

Turn of the century, Krikayrau and Sirbrith, the heads of sisters Miriel and Indis Tarkilinien

AN: Since Miriel was 13 and Indis was 10, they alternate between Krikayrau and Sirbrith.

 

Indis loved her time at Krikayrau. She felt there much better than in the Angle, than in her home. Not that she felt unloved by her parents – both her father and mother had hearts big enough for the whole half dozen of them. But it seemed that somehow the others got more of their love and attention than she did.

The two eldest sisters – Almarian and Elwing – had left home for fostering when she was four. They then returned when she was eight. And after a year again they left to join their husbands. Naturally they visited – and were visited – but it wasn’t the same thing as living together. And what could a twelve year old girl talk about with her sister, heavy with second child and fretting over her first having one child’s illness or other?

Her closest sister – Miriel – was their father’s favourite for looking like a younger copy of their mother. Her brothers were spoilt rotten by their mother. The dreamt for heirs she could finally give to her husband, her ultimate gift to him. The boys being younger and being BOYS turned the gap into a chasm.

 

So her uncle Ara, Aunt Lothi, Uncle Guntram and the others at Krikayrau were such delightful company and the place was magical for her – there she and Miriel were given equal treatment. Uncle Aravir – whenever he could – gave her the attention she asked for or needed, if necessary telling Miriel to wait for her turn. Naturally, also giving his attention to Angarad, the boys or the two smallest girls as well.

There also was an element of vanity in her enjoyment of time in the Krikayrau. She was quite pretty, well, pretty enough. But in the Angle her type of pretty – classical Numenorian features – were shared by nine girls in ten. If not nineteen in twenty. And – naturally enough she usually moved around with her blue eyed, round faced, blonde haired sister. This conferred upon her a highly undesired characteristic – invisibility. Or being a stepping stone – by now she had inured herself to being approached by boys solely wishing to establish some sort of link to Miriel.

Whereas at Krikayrau and in Breeland Miriel did not cause much of a sensation – although her blonde hair was unusual it was not unheard of, her face, eyes and fuller figure were nothing exceptional. Probably one more reason to like it there, here it was she, Indis, the grey mouse, who stood out as an exotic beauty. Just like Almarian had told her it would be. Taller than almost every boy, with unduplicated facial features, she felt and enjoyed a higher degree of male interest. After all a girl liked to be appreciated now and then, instead of being viewed with interest usually reserved for chopped liver. And she enjoyed the earthier activities than those at Sirbrith. Hunting was exciting!

 _________________________

"Indis, we have to take protect you as you are our niece", Thiriston said with absolute certainty in his voice. He was absolutely unruffled by the fact that he had to raise his chin at a sharp angle to see her face, Indis being over a head taller. Yet he already was wider by half than she was.

"That's what uncles are for." He uttered that with absolute certainty, with equally serious faced younger brothers at his flanks. What bothered him was the perspective of being laughed in the face – OK, not laughed by giggled in the face – and being told he was such a _sweet leedle baby_. The shame of that – when he and his brothers had offered protection to Miriel – had almost killed him.

She felt her throat constrict. Her brothers, who were more or less the same age as her “uncles”, had never spoken of anything like. The two years of difference between her and Valandil felt like much, much more. And nobody in the family had ever offered her anything like this. Just for her being who she was. She hugged all three of them, with wet eyes.

 ---------------------------

Miriel much preferred her fostering at Sirbrith than at Krikayrau. She found the company of her sister’s husband’s family much more interesting that her “grandfather-uncle’s”.   Although the lady of the house was their blood sister Almarian, thus Sirbrith having no resident “grand lady of the Dunedain” - which Helgon’s wife would had been, this still offered a more refined “ladylike” air than Aunt Lothi. For starters Almarian did not consider pig-sticking a woman’s past-time. Although uncle Aravir seemed not to think so either - the row between her and Uncle Ara after an all girl pig-sticking excursion had taught her more vulgar expressions she thought existed. And some were very naughty ....

 The company at Sirbrith was much more interesting than at Krikayrau. Olon’s two youngest brothers were unmarried and had fellow rangers as friends. These friends in turn had brothers and sisters. With Helgon running an open house – as long as the guests made “no fancy demands” - there often was a dozen of youth of either sex on the house. And this gave lots of opportunities for fun and games even for an initially underage tag along as herself. Some of those brothers and sisters were in their teens too. She stood out from all the other girls with her blonde hair and blue eyes. She would like to be a bit taller – being at least half a head shorter than every girl in the mansion was tiring after a time - but she felt her that having more prominent feminine features than her peers made up for the missing inches. Just like Elwing. The boys stared when they though she was not looking. Her décolletage in particular was like catnip to them. Langon was so sweetly flushed when she caught him taking a peek ...

 

At Krikayrau the social milieu was not so sophisticated. There were her baby cousins – but the eldest, Thiriston, was six years her junior, placing him in snivelling snotling territory, not a playmate or potential beau. The male company she could keep there – the sons of chiefs and eldermen – had limited horizons. Fighting, hunting and farming. They only spoke Dunlander and Westron. This did wonders for her fluency in Common, true, but she missed the joint singing of songs in Sindarin, the boys and girls taking turns to sign the parts of the characters. The only songs they knew were in Dunlander, and involved graphical descriptions of spilling guts, the quantity and quality of loot, who could drink how much in what time, extolling the loudness of farts and belches and – if her Dunlending ( _and hearing – the volume went down and the boys mumbled these parts_ ) was good enough – intercourse with captive females. SEE AN. And there was no female company for her there – the cousins were little girls, while the Dunlending girls were timid and shy to socialise with her. And there was no – or very little – mixed sex socialising unless she rode to Breeland. BORING!

 

 

AN: Read the Illiad and Oddysey.

 


	48. A good orc

2992-3002, Little Dunland, Krikayrau Manor

Ashtuzual had never been happier than at her new home. For many, many different reasons. One was that that it eliminated the constant threat - which actually had proved real – that opening her door could be fatal. Here, accidental contact inside the manor with an outsider – of the "Eru! Look! It's an orc! KILL IT!" variety was impossible. And this extended to her children as well.

The next thing was hunting. She loved to hunt and whenever envisioning herself leading the life of an orcess she saw herself as a huntress. With the sprogs growing up and no new ones, and with a safe shelter, she could indulge in her passion for hunting as never before. Whenever he was home Aravir joined her. Although he drew the line at letting her hunt moose, wild boar and bear – she had to hunt them when he was in the Lone Lands. She started taking her children along when they were twelve. This made them about sixteen in human terms.

She loved hunting at night, running under the stars. Ashtuzual discussed this with Aravir. He told her that the elves were known as the people of the stars having been awoken before the Sun and the Moon. He was interested if orcs were also happy when running under the stars, without Angry Face and Cold Face.

"Naa. Orcs are never happy. Orcs are always angry. Or scared. Orcs are like the Kormik fellow, always expecting the worst from others, always explaining the shit they do by "he was gonna do it to me so I did to him first". An orc is happy only when he is making somebody suffer and has nobody behind his back to worry about. There even is a word in orcish about being happy because others are unhappy – _shaden-froyd_.

Another passion she was now free to practice was midfery. She now had four villages to offer her skills to. It took her some time to gain acceptance of the Dunlending women. But once that barrier was overcome and her skill acknowledged, the lady of the Manor riding out to the villages - a mounted soldier or son accompanying her pony - became a common sight the lenght and breadth of Little Dunland.

Yet another source of relief was the dropping of "living the lie". Most of the Dunlendings were indifferent, which was just the way she liked it. Being hosted with honours by the chieftain of the new clan himself – Gwion – gave her endorsement of the highest order.

She had Aravir at home for at least the whole winter. They had no more children. Although the Hobbit midwife had helped her overcome her fears and visions, Ashtuzual refused even to contemplate further offspring - she was too scared of birthing "monsters". Five - with Angarad practically six - was enough. And Aravir agreed. They were brought up along the thinking that their mixed blood made them age at a rate half way between that of their parents and deemed to be "of Age" at thirteen.

The children grew up in a unique setting. The manor followed a mix of what Aravir remembered about how life in a comparable estate in the Angle looked like, combined with dwarrow mores adapted to a rural setting, plus the influence of their neighbours and more or less peers - of Gwion the clan chieftain and the other chiefs. Although the main language of the House was Westron, all the children learnt to read and write in both Common and Sindarin. Orcish and Dunlander did not require literacy.

Running the Manor quickly proved to be beyond the combined skills of the orcess and the dwarrowdam. To remedy this and to humour her friend Lothiriel brought in a distinguished dwarrow lady of the Broadbeams, acquainted with the mansions of the Southern Blue Mountain dwarrow holds. The lady arrived with two kinsmen as guards cum chaperones. She disapproved of everything, starting with Ashtuzual's origins (although forewarned) and with Gudrun scandalously living among Men with no male dwarrow to protect her. The two hundred years old worthy barricaded herself with her guards at night, worried about lusting Men and a bloodthirsty Orc. She left the next day.

The next Master of Homemaking was a tiny – hobbit size- lady of the Stiffbeards clan. Although Gudrun shook her head a bit, with Stiffbeards not being a "proper" clan, there were no other takers for this unusual teaching position. The Stiffbeard proved more tolerant of the arrangements. It could had been the Dunlendings which topped the scale – she was fascinated by their hairiness, fully approving of the males' wild beards, which indeed went well with her bristling beard and hair. She soon was known to all local children as Lady Hedgehog. She stayed on for seven years, granting Gudrun her Master's degree.

As it was proper the Stiffbeard showed up with a male escort, her husband. Bending the rules a bit – as parallel learning of trades was frowned upon – he brought Gudrun up to Journeyman level in Smithing. In the necessary basics her experience was way beyond what was expected, she only needed to acquire certain medium level skills and practice them.

()()()

October 3002, the Angle, Sirbrith

Indis and the other girls sneaked into the room occupied by Celebel and Gasseth. The maidens staying at the estate tried to hold such an all-girl party at least once a season. It was an occasion for sharing joy, heartache, opinions on which boys were interesting or not, their families, their siblings, pets, hunting animals, horses, whatever. They also told one another stories, some including ghosts or monsters. In effect some of the younger girls refused to walk though the dark corridor to their rooms, or made wild dashes in groups.

Some of the other girls were new, or had somehow missed out on previous hen parties, so they asked her about Krikayrau. So she described it to them, how it is was smaller than Sirbrith, laying close to extensive woods on one side, yet half a day's ride from a town. With a smial – she had to describe what this is – kept there for sleep overs.

She described what they would be doing there now. With fewer lessons – "I'm supposed to learn some Quenya HERE" – there was more of outdoor activities.

In the autumn – besides fruit - there would be mushroom picking in the forest. The Dunlendings were almost as clever with mushrooms as the Halflings and had made the manor acquire a taste for that plant. The forest and wetlands offered all sorts of berries and other useful or edible pants. The women and the girls mostly, ascribed with nimbler fingers and more patience. Plus boys up to ten or so. Or older boys would volunteer, if they were sweet on a lass, in the hopes of getting a kiss if the picking lead them to some secluded place. Or at least behind a bush. And it often did. This most of the other girls knew, not being so different from life in the Angle.

Indis sighed – it was the hunting season now. After the row over pig sticking the girls were allowed to take boar-spears only for self defence. With the Lord at home at this time of the year the Lady of the house complied with the limitation. The women hunted with bow for deer or smaller game.

The girls were fascinated that she could accompany the Lady Lothiriel on her healer rounds and assist her at birthings. Naturally enough this was a topic of vital interest to them, not all had been at a birthing yet, hence the thirst for details.

The conversation then slipped into discussion of potential husbands and how their married lives could look like. She kept quiet. Indis was worried. Upset even. Although the thought that she would like her marriage to look like that of Uncle Ara and Aunt Lothi was not disquieting. What was unnerving was that when she tried to envision a husband her vision took upon the face of Uncle Aravir. That was troubling!

()()()

3002, Little Dunland, Krikayrau

It was a full moon in early November, enabling Aravir to hunt together with Ashtuzual as he was able to see at least something. They had been hunting this way, as a pair, for years. The couple was stalking deer. They were slowly making their way upwind, looking for the herd they knew often foraged in this art of the woods to the south of the Manor.

While patrolling his share of the camp's perimeter Lamaethor's acute elven ears caught, at the border of perception, the murmur of conversation. He had crept up and caught the sight of red orc eyes in the darkness. Had it not been for those red eyes he would have listened further, as the barely audible conversation sounded oddly like Sindarin. Impossible. He drew and released his arrow. THUD. The elf's mien was impassive, after the manner of his race, yet inwardly Lamaethor grinned with satisfaction. One vermin less. A THUD meant flesh and a THUNK meant wood – this was he had been taught as an elfling.

THUD- Ashtuzual fell on top of Aravir. They had been crouching in the shadow of a tree. Thrown off balance he fell onto his left side, with Ashtuzual on top of his thigh and leg. He swirled to resume a crouched position to examine his wife. A trickle of her red blood – black in the moonlight – dribbled from her mouth. His fingers felt the thick shaft and long fletching of the arrow. He need look no further. She was dead. This was a heavy combat arrow of the type he himself had been using – since he had been strong enough - for the last fifty years. And killed hundreds of orcs with. She was dead ...

They were being hunted! Was Aragorn right all this time? Was Batrcy ten years not an accident?

He would not leave her body for defilement. Not hearing anybody approaching and keeping close to the ground he began to drag her body backwards. Every several yards he stopped to listen for pursuit.

The lack of glowering red eyes - he caught a flash of cyan - meant that other one must be one of the lower forms of adain, of men ready to ally themselves to the Darkness. Lamaethor waited for an opportunity to kill the Man but he was somewhere in a patch of shadow. Then there were some grunts and sounds of the adain moving quietly away. Good. The camp was safe. After waiting for the sounds to become muffled by the distance Lamaethor moved back towards the camp, to close the gap in the guarded parameter. He was to be relieved at dawn. He would come back for a look then.

Aravir reached the Manor panting heavily. He had run – in a zigzag – most of the five hundred yards he had ordered to be kept clear of higher vegetation between the wood and the buildings. Dawn was already brushing the eastern sky pink. Now to wake up the children, a quick burial, and to set out with the men and dogs to where she had been killed. And to chase down the murderer.

()()()()()()

3002, November, between Breeland and the Shire

The dogs picked up a trail and led them along practically indiscernible tracks to an abandoned camp site. Elves! Between twelve and twenty, as far as Aravir could read the tracks. They followed the trail west. Two days later, at the Brandywine, Gwion and his youngest son on foam covered horses caught up with them. Aravir barely noticed their presence. Ignoring centuries old orders not to enter the Shire they followed the tracks across the river at the ford at Girdley Island, less than half a day's march northwards from the bridge and the North Gate of Buckland.

During the chase there was a thought which Aravir kept on pushing away, which he refused to acknowledge. He himself killed orcs on sight. He himself would have let loose such an arrow. Had Bergdis not cried out twenty years ago, he would have slit his wife's to be throat without a second thought. Orc. And had he done so, he would not have remembered the fact the next day. But no, she was Ashtuzual, she was his Dark Flower, she was different. Why didn't the elf know that she was different? Why?

They finally caught up with the elves on the ridge running northwards from Bag End towards Binbole Wood.

"Welcome friends."

The Ranger moved around the elven guard, ignoring the arms extended in greeting.

"We are not friends, elf. Whose arrow is this?" he held up the arrow for all twenty or so elves - mostly ellith -  to see.

"It is mine", a tall – like all elves – dark haired ellon said.

"Anybody else use your arrows?" – Aravir was at the limits of his control, but still managed to ask a sensible question.

"No. Why?"

He began to ask a question but grabbed the elf by the ears and smashed his nose with a head but.

There were shouts and screams and drawing and scramble for weapons.

He repeated the blow. He let the elf collapse.

Behind him Gwion managed to prevent a bloodbath. By gestures he conveyed to the posse and to the elves not to draw blood. With more than half of the elves being unarmed ellith it would have been a massacre, as Aravir had about fifteen armoured and well armed men.

"You killed my wife!"

The now armed ellyn were shielding the ellith, pushing them into cover, forming a wall before them. So far none of the sides had released arrows nor began swinging. Signalling the men to stay put at the edge of the clearing, the chieftain – with arms extended and empty hands – advanced to put himself between the main group of armed elves and Lamaethor being battered by Aravir.

A wailing elleth wrestled herself free from those holding her in safety and ran to the elf. He was on his knees, holding his face in his hands, blood flowing from under his fingers. The female dropped to her knees besides him.

Aravir knelt on one knee to be eye level with the pair, shoved his face into theirs and snarled:

"We could have had thirty years together. THIRTY YEARS! Do you even understand such a length of time?! And you stole TEN years from that." To the elleth he shouted:

"Your FUCKER robbed me of TEN YEARS with my wife!"

The ellon finally put two and two together – being repeatedly head butted was not conducive to thinking.

"The orc?" – he spit out through blood, the second blow splitting his lip.

"Please, don't kill him!" – the elleth pleaded through her tears.

"Yes, the ORC! She was my wife! And you killed her!"

The elf couple – and the pack on the other side of Gwion – wore faces of confusion, incomprehension, disgust and revulsion.

"She was an orc ... "

"She was my wife. I LOVED her!"

The stout Ranger was barely controlling himself.

"You killed her - I NOW HAVE NOTHING!"

"I have no wife! My children have no mother! You killed HER!"

"We will NEVER see her again!"

Addressing all the elves:

"FUCK OFF TO VALINOR! ALL FUCKING YOU! YOU ARE NOTHING BUT DEATH AND RUIN TO MY FAMILY!"

He howled with a voice breaking with emotion. He looked with hate filled eyes at the elves. He'd gladly murder them all. It would make him feel better. But the ellith ... and Aragorn and his Arwen ... he groaned.

"Damn you all."

He rose from his knee and stomped eastwards.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

3002, November, Little Dunland, Krikayrau Manor

In a quiet if emotional affair, the tombstone over the grave of the first Lady of the Manor was laid down. Many of those present unashamedly wept over the stone bearing the words

**Ashtuzual-Lothiriel**

**2972-3002 TA**

**Beloved Wife and Mother**

**A Good Orc**

**She Will Be Missed**

**THE END**


End file.
